1R  POEMS 


HENRY  AYLETT  SAMPSON 

WITH   A  FOREWORD  BY 
JOHN  CALVIN  METCALF 


SONNETS 


HENRY  AYLETT  SAMPSON 


SONNETS 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


BY 

HENRY  AYLETT  SAMPSON 


WITH  INTRODUCTION  BY 

JOHN  CALVIN  METCALF 

LINDEN   KENT   MEMORIAL   PROFESSOR 
TJNIVERSITY   OF  VIRGINIA 


NEW  xr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1920, 
BY   GEORGE    H.    DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OP  AMERICA 


FOREWORD 

HENRY  AYLETT  SAMPSON  belonged  to  that  class 
of  literary  spirits  who  are  so  concerned  with  the 
joy  of  creation  as  to  be  quite  indifferent  to  the 
rewards  of  publication.  The  inward  sense  of  life 
and  expression  was  enough.  He  was  careless  of 
fame.  So  it  happened  that  only  a  few  of  his 
poems  got  into  print  during  his  lifetime.  This 
verse  was  "fugitive"  only  in  the  sense  that  its 
author,  modestly  fleeing  from  publicity,  had  been 
caught,  as  it  were,  by  a  discriminating  editor  and 
finally  persuaded  to  appear  with  some  regularity 
in  the  columns  of  the  Richmond  Evening  Journal. 
Thence  discovered  by  a  national  anthologist,  the 
poet  found  himself  in  the  company  of  his  peers: 
several  of  his  sonnets  were  reprinted  in  the  Boston 
Transcript  and  in  Braithwaite's  Anthology  of 
Magazine  Verse  for  1918.  Those  who  read  the 
published  sonnets  at  once  recognized  the  accent  of 
a  real  poet.  Now  that  his  work  is  done,  the 
natural  impulse  is  to  collect  into  a  volume  such  of 
his  verse,  published  and  unpublished,  as  those  who 
knew  him  intimately  think  he  might  have  chosen 
to  preserve.  This  they  would  do  both  for  the  sake 
of  his  own  fame  and  for  the  delight  of  a  larger 
number  of  readers  than  that  relatively  small  circle 
who  already  know  his  great  merits. 

[v] 


FOREWORD 

With  Henry  Aylett  Sampson  literature  was  a 
passion,  not  a  profession.  His  life  of  fifty  years, 
spent  partly  in  the  West  and  partly  in  the  East, 
but  mostly  in  Virginia,  to  which  he  was  tradition- 
ally rooted,  was  largely  devoted  to  business.  But 
he  was  a  lifelong  lover  of  books  and  for  thirty 
years  a  writer  of  verse.  He  knew  the  best  that 
had  been  thought  and  said  in  the  world,  and  from 
such  a  background  of  culture  his  own  writing  was 
enriched.  Lured  by  old,  forgotten,  far-off  things 
and  familiarly  versed  in  legendary  lore,  he  had  a 
fancy  for  rare  volumes  and  the  flavor  of  antique 
phrasing.  Old  bookshops  and  their  leisurely 
keepers  attracted  him,  and  he  would  find  surcease 
from  business  preoccupations  in  these  retreats.  If 
perchance  he  found  a  favorite  author  in  artistic 
covers,  he  was  as  happy  as  Charles  Lamb  over  the 
capture  of  an  Elizabethan  folio.  But  his  love  for 
the  old  was  hardly  greater  than  his  interest  in  the 
new.  Although  himself  a  conservative  in  the  use 
of  verse-forms,  he  was  an  open-minded,  if  some- 
what amused,  reader  and  critic  of  the  amorphous 
vagaries  of  the  free-verse  folk.  He  was  no  for- 
malist, however;  to  him  it  was  the  imagery,  the 
magic  word  or  phrase,  the  tone-coloring,  rather 
than  the  mold,  that  made  poetry.  For  these 
Keats-like  qualities  his  instinct  was  sure;  they  are 
the  qualities,  indeed,  that  give  distinction  of  tone 
to  much  of  his  own  verse, 
[vi] 


FOREWORD 

The  sonnet  is  the  form  in  which  Henry  Aylett 
Sampson  attained  his  highest  poetic  excellence. 
By  long  years  of  practice  he  achieved  a  mastery 
of  this  most  exacting  kind  of  lyric.  "It  takes  a 
great  deal  of  life  to  make  a  little  art/'  said  Alfred 
de  Musset.  No  one  knew  the  truth  of  that  better 
than  this  Virginia  poet.  To  your  true  poet  the 
fairy  gift  of  song  is  vouchsafed  by  the  gods  on  one 
condition,  that  he  requite  the  deathless  favor  by 
tireless  devotion  to  his  art.  Henry  Aylett  Samp- 
son left  some  two-score  sonnets,  the  fruitage  of 
thirty  years.  If  read  in  the  order  of  their  compo- 
sition, they  will  show  a  notable  growth  of  mind 
and  art ;  the  early  grace  is  in  the  later  ones,  but  the 
blossom  has  changed  into  mellow  f ruitf ulness ;  the 
years  have  wrought  a  finer  fabric  and  a  chastening 
of  spirit.  The  youthful  sonnets  show  the  poet  as  a 
careful  student  of  technique,  endowed  with  a  rare 
sensitiveness  to  beauty  and  an  unusual  facility  in 
the  combination  of  pleasing  sounds;  but  the  years 
brought  freedom  of  movement,  sureness  of  touch, 
and  a  finer  harmony  of  thought  and  emotion.  In 
such  sonnets  as  "On  an  Old  Hymn-Book"  and  "To 
a  Genial  Old  Man"  subtlety  and  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment are  perfectly  blended,  while  in  "Stephen 
Phillips  Bankrupt"  and  "An  Obbligato,"  for  in- 
stance, there  is  a  happy  union  of  intellectual  sug- 
gestion and  solemn  tenderness.  And  one  would 
read  a  long  time  in  sonnet-collections  of  these 
modern  days  before  coming  upon  so  musical  and 

[vif] 


FOREWORD 

haunting  a  bit  of  fancy  as  "Prologue  to  a  Book  of 
Verse." 

In  other  kinds  of  verse  less  formal  and  less 
serious  than  the  sonnet,  Henry  Aylett  Sampson 
was  equally  successful.  Light,  graceful  lyric 
forms — the  vers  de  societe  of  the  old  French 
singers,  perfected  in  English  by  Austin  Dobson, 
Andrew  Lang,  and  others — strongly  appealed  to 
the  Virginia  poet;  in  his  youth  he  tried  his  hand 
at  the  ballade,  the  rondeau,  the  villanelle,  and  the 
triolet.  Later  in  life  he  found  a  more  enduring 
satisfaction  in  less  exotic  types,  but  in  the  familiar 
personal  lyric  his  fancy  was  always  happily  at 
home.  Lover  of  books,  he  was  no  less  a  lover  of 
men,  a  very  human,  winsome  soul.  He  had  a 
poet's  swift  and  sure  intuition  of  spiritual  values 
in  an  individual,  and  having  once  appraised  him 
to  his  liking,  he  took  their  possessor  to  his  heart. 
Many  of  his  familiar  lyrics  record  his  friendship 
in  a  spirit  of  charming  badinage,  poems  almost  too 
intimately  personal  for  inclusion  in  this  volume; 
but  some  of  them  are  so  radiantly  Sampsonian  that 
they  may  not  be  omitted  from  a  collection  which 
would  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  poet's  own 
personality. 

It  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  be  coldly  judicial  in 
the  evaluation  of  verse  that  comes  so  near  the 
heart,  evoked,  as  much  of  it  was,  by  some  appar- 
ently trivial  action  clashing  dramatically  with  an 
individual  trait  known  to  only  a  few  congenial 
[viii] 


FOREWORD 

spirits.  Of  such  stuff  Henry  Aylett  Sampson 
made  a  score  or  more  of  little  lyrical  ballads,  some 
touched  with  subdued  comic  humor,  others  voicing 
a  recurrent  note  of  gentle  pathos,  a  few  sounding 
an  undertone  of  wistful  sadness,  the  sense  of  tears 
in  mortal  things  usually  allied  with  the  gift  of 
poetic  sensibility.  In  none  of  these  personal 
poems  is  the  artistry  more  delicate  or  the  senti- 
ment finer  than  in  the  group  called  "Ju-Ju 
Verses,"  in  which  the  poet  whimsically  and  play- 
fully interprets  the  mind  of  childhood  with  his  eye 
on  his  own  child.  Here  more  than  elsewhere  his 
fancy  has  an  elfin  touch,  but  the  general  tone  is 
the  good  old  human  one  of  hearth  and  home.  His 
excursions  into  Romanceland  began  and  ended  in 
his  own  domestic  "enchanted  island."  For  this 
Prospero,  also,  his  "library  was  dukedom  large 
enough";  and  for  this  singer  of  old  Ulysses, 
"always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart,"  there  was 
gladness  in  the  light  of  familiar  faces.  Lover  of 
men  and  women  and  children,  lyric  humanist, 
gentle  satirist,  touching  the  minor  chords  of  the 
harp  of  life  into  a  music  which  those  of  us  who 
knew  him  well  would  not  willingly  let  perish — 
such  was  Henry  Sampson. 

In  the  selection  and  arrangement  of  the  poems 
in  this  volume  four  persons  have  had  a  hand — 
Mrs.  Emma  Speed  Sampson,  Archer  G.  Jones, 
Samuel  T.  Clover,  and  the  writer  of  this  introduc- 

[ix] 


FOREWORD 

tion.  To  the  last  the  final  editorial  supervision 
was  intrusted.  The  purpose  has  been  to  make 
available  to  the  public  such  poems  of  Henry  Aylett 
Sampson  as  seem  most  adequately  to  reflect  his 
interesting  personality  and  most  likely  to  make  a 
permanent  appeal  to  lovers  of  literature.  Thus 
the  little  volume  should  prove  at  once  a  tribute 
to  his  genius  and  a  fitting  memorial  to  a  rarely 
gifted  singer.  To  one  of  his  friends  in  particular, 
Archer  G.  Jones  of  Richmond,  grateful  acknowl- 
edgment is  due  for  providing  for  the  publication  of 
this  book  of  poems. 

JOHN  CALVIN  METCALF. 
University  of  Virginia. 


CONTENTS 

A  Sonnet  Cycle 

PROLOGUE  TO  A  BOOK  OF  VERSE      ...  19 

SONNET  TO  A  SONNET 20 

To  ROSALIE  AYLETT  SAMPSON        ...  21 

AN  ANNIVERSARY      ....         .        .  22 

Ir    MEMORIAM 23 

AN  OBBLIGATO:  To  MARGARET  PRATT  .        .  24 

IN  MEMORIAM:  To  HELEN  MONTAGUE  .         .  25 

STEPHEN  PHILLIPS,  BANKRUPT       ...  26 
AFTER  READING  AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF  FUGITIVE 

VERSE 27 

ON  AN  OLD  HYMN-BOOK       .        .        .        .  28 

To  A  GENIAL  OLD  MAN 29 

DAWN         ........  30 

THE  WAVE .81 

ALL  HAIL,  ROMANCE! 82 

MAIS  OU  SONT  LES  NEIGES  o'ANTAN  ?      .        .  33 

SUNDAY  IN  THE  FOREST 84 

CONVICTION .35 

To  SWINBURNE 86 

"THE  DUKE  OF  GANDIA"         ....  87 

DEATH  OF  ASE  (PEER  GYNT  SUITE)      .        .  88 

POE 39 

BY  THE  SEA:  A  MEMORY       ....  40 

VENTOSUS 41 

[xi] 


CONTENTS 

"SLAVE"  OF  MICHELANGELO   .        .         .        .  42 

"VICTORY"  OF  SAMOTHRACE    .        .        .        .  43 

To  FRANK  L.  WOODRUFF        .                 ,        .  44 
JUDAS    (I)          .        .        .        .        .        .        .45 

JUDAS   (II) 46 

GOLGOTHA 47 

DEATH  OF  SAMPSON          ...         .        .  48 

DAVID'S  GRIEF 49 

ROBERT  E.  GONZALES 50 

IN  MEMORIAM:  To  GREAYER  CLOVER     .         .  51 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  BOY  ...  52 

A  PRAYER 53 

DUST 54 

Ballads  Personal  and  Patriotic 
STRANGER,  PAUSE  AND  PRAY  FOR  THE  REPOSE 

OF  BRINDLE 57 

To  BLOOMERS,  FAITHFUL  BULLDOG        .        .  59 

IN   ARCADY 61 

"FAR  AWAY  AND  LONG  AGO"  ....  62 

WATER 63 

AN  OLD  SEA-CAPTAIN 64 

THE   COMET 65 

SONG  OF  THE  LIBERATED  .•                .        .        .  66 

A  BALLADE  OF  NOVEMBER       ....  67 

"DE  SENECTUTE" 69 

AFTER  MANILA          ......  71 

OVER,  OVER  THERE! 72 

"THE  BELOVED  VAGABOND"            ...  74 

"DOWN  IN  OLD  VIRGINIA"      ....  75 

[xii] 


CONTENTS 

"CousiN    JANE" 76 

BEST  LOVE 78 

WEARINESS 78 

GOOD   NIGHT .  79 

REUNION •        .  79 

WHAT  THE  WIND  SINGS 80 

PRESENCES 81 

"FiNis"      ........  82 

From  the  Book  of  Ju-Ju 

Ju-Ju 85 

"TRAILING  CLOUDS  OF  GLORY"       ...  88 

SUPREME  COURT  DECISIONS     ....  90 

"THE  FEMALE  OFFENDER"      .        .  91 
THE  WANDERER        .        .        .        .        .        .94 

FOR  Ju-Ju  IN  19— 97 

MIST 98 

JUDY 99 

FATHER'S  SINS  FORGOT    ...        .  100 

WHEN  JUDY  READS 101 

In  Lighter  Vein 

BUSINESS  MAN  SAMPSON  TO  POET  SAMPSON  105 

"ONE  POINT  OF  VIEW" 107 

"THE  WORM  TURNS" 108 

MONTVILLE 109 

FRIENDSHIP'S  OFFERING 110 

WHEN  YOUR  WIFE'S  AWAY     .        .        .        .111 

OLD  YADKIN  CORN 112 

[xiii] 


CONTENTS 

REFLECTIONS  ON  DIETING  AND  DOCTORS       .      113 

To  A  POLYPHONIC  POET 115 

"WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS!"       .        .        .        .117 

COVERLY 118 

BALLADE  OF  OLD  TIME  BARTENDERS      .        .  119 

FORSAKEN 121 

To  OUR  GREAT-GREAT-GRANDFATHER,  PAT- 
RICK HENRY 122 

Juvenilia 

"WITH  PIPE  AND  BOOK  BEFORE  THE  FIRE"  125 
"I  WAS  A  STRANGER  AND  YE  TOOK  ME  IN"  127 
"HENCE  VAIN,  DELUDING  JOYS"  .  .  .129 

RETROSPECTIVE 130 

A  RIME  WITHOUT  REASON  .  .  .  .131 
RONDEAU — "THREE  FIFTY-FIVE" — Juvenis  .  133 
RONDEAU — "THREE  FIFTY-FIVE" — Senex  .  134 

NOCTURNE 135 

INSANITAS  AMORIS 136 

A  HANDKERCHIEF  .  .  .  .  .  .137 

"GOOD  MASTER  DEATH" 138 

"Now  SPRING  Is  BEGUILING"  .  .  .139 
"THOUGH  CRITICS  SCORN  MY  HUMBLE  LAYS"  141 

"!N  VAIN  I  STRIVE" 142 

'  'Tis  HARD  FOR  ME  TO  IMPROVISE"  .  .  143 
"On,  WHAT  AM  I  TO  HAVE  SUCH  LOVE  AS 

THINE" 144 

WILLIAM  MORRIS 145 

"THERE  Is  No  HELL" 145 

THALASSA!  THALASSA! 146 

[xiv] 


CONTENTS 

"I  HAD  KNOWN  HER  So  LONG"  .  .  .  147 

"THE  WIND  Is  MOANING  ABOUT  THE  EAVES"  148 

"REASON  FROWNING  ASKS  OP  ME"  .  .  .  149 
"You  SEEM  TO  ME  LIKE  TERROR-STRICKEN 

FAUNS" 149 

"SOFTLY  THE  SHATTERED  LANCES  OF  THE 

RAIN" 150 

"O  LOVELY  NIGHT" 150 

"ANIMA  ANCEPS" 151 

"O  BLESSED  SLEEP" 152 

"Jx  THE  FOREST  ALL  Is  SILENT"  .  .  .  153 

RONDEL — "TAKE  NOT  THY  LIPS  AWAY"  .  154 

EN  PASSANT 155 

"O  LOVE,  COME  BACK" 156 

Notes  .      .  159 


[xv] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


PROLOGUE  TO  A  BOOK  OF  VERSE 

OH,  you,  whose  blood  glows  at  the  clash  of  steel, 
Seek  not  to  sense  it  as  you  turn  these  leaves, 
Nor  look  for  Love  triumphant,  or  that  grieves 

Deserted,  old  and  maimed  on  Passion's  wheel. 

And  here  no  line  of  statecraft  will  appeal 

To  him  Ambition's  shifting  flame  deceives; 
Here  fades  the  world  while  Memory  retrieves 

Dominions  moldering  'neath  long  centuries'  seal. 
Oh,  ask  not  me  what  you  shall  see  or  hear, 

Mayhap,  a  rose,  lone,  virginal  and  white: 

A  glint  of  moonlight  on  a  lifting  wave: 

Faint  tones  of  bells,  blown  o'er  a  lilied  mere: 
A    star,    new-born    upon    the    breast    of 
Night: 

Or  withered  leaves  whirled  o'er  a  nameless  grave. 


[19] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


SONNET  TO  A  SONNET 

WHERE  lurks  the  elfin  music  of  thy  lines 

That  sigh  like  surf  upon  a  summer  shore — 
Yea,  thy  light  magic  showeth  me  far  more — 
I  hear  the  melody  of  murmuring  pines, 
Brown  sheaves  I  see,  and  wealth  of  tangled  vines, 
And  dark-haired  nymphs  adrowse,  lulled  by 

the  roar 

Of  some  far  cataract  whose  waters  pour 
Flashing  with  gems  that  mock  at  earthly  mines. 
Oh,  cosmic  soul  of  man  that  jeers  at  fate — 
Fate  that  would  bind  him  to  this  iron  age — 

A  word,  a  note,  a  vista,  lo !  there  springs 
Undying  still  the  memory  of  the  great 
Primeval  world,  his  vanished  heritage, 

While  with  the  morning  stars  his  spirit  sings. 


[20] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


TO  ROSALIE  AYLETT  SAMPSON 

I  MAY  not  break  thy  sleep,  so  let  me  kneel 

Softly  beside  thee,  dreaming  that  thine  eyes 
Look  into  mine,  where  wistful  tear-drops  rise: 
Dream  thy  dear  hand  in  wintry  locks  doth  steal: 
Dream  thy  loved  voice  can  once  again  reveal 

The  love  poor  youth  had  not  the  wit  to  prize: 
Dream  one  last  kiss  upon  my  lips  light  lies, 
Then  can  the  Angel  Death  mine  own  congeal. 
Thou  art  in  paradise,  and  God's  great  peace, 
That  passeth  understanding,  laps  thee  round; 

But,  mother  mine,  remember  me  I  say 
In  that  lone  hour  that  marks  my  soul's  release, 
And  clasp  me  like  an  infant,  lost  and  found, 
And,  as  of  old,  teach  me  again  to  pray. 


[21] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


AN  ANNIVERSARY 

I  WAS  a  child  and  when  they  came  to  me 

And  told  me,  brokenly,  that  you  were  dead 
I  could  not  sense  it.     How,  when  overhead, 

The  sun  shone  on  and  in  a  budding  tree 

Home-coming  birds  their  ecstasies  set  free? 

I  had  not  seen  the  angel,  marked  his  tread; 
That  night  you'd  hear  my  prayer,  tuck  me  in 
bed; 

You  would  return  and  my  vague  sorrow  flee. 

•  *••••• 

You  did  return,  for  in  brooks'  singing  flow 

I  catch  your  laugh,  and  often  in  the  leaves 

I  hear  you  whisper,  or  some  joyous  rose 

Sways  at  your  passing,  as  unseen  you  go, 

Smiling,  because  my  heart  no  longer  grieves 

Since   I   have  learned  what  God  would  have  us 
know. 


[22] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


IN  MEMORIAM 

LET  us  not  mourn  for  those  who  left  us  here, 

Whose  feet  press  meadows  of  undying  green, 
Whose  eyes  are  radiant  with  a  joy  serene, 

Who  may  not  know  our  sorrows,  lest  a  tear 

Defeat  God's  plans  that  shall  at  last  be  clear. 
Oh,  let  us  dream  that  over  us,  unseen, 
They  hover  lightly  with  triumphant  mien 

In  perfect  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear. 

They  were  as  little  children  that  lay  down 
At  day's  decline  to  yield  themselves  to 
sleep, 

And  as  they  dreamed  came  One  with  silence  shod 
And  they  forgot  the  world's  caress  or  frown — 
Oh,  blessed  sowers  who  need  never  reap — 

And  waked,  strained  to  the  yearning  breast  of  God. 


[23] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


AN  OBBLIGATO:  TO  MARGARET  PRATT 

ABOVE  bowed  heads  of  worshipers  in  prayer 
The  priest's  voice  floats,  besieging  heaven's  throne, 
Pleading  Christ's  name  and  depth  of  love  unknown. 
Here  once  you  sat  and  over  your  dark  hair 
The  sunlight  lingered,  limned  a  halo  there. 
Ah,  then  it  seemed,  upon  a  light  wind  blown, 
Came  music,  delicate  and  dim,  alone, 
Hymned  by  the  angels  in  a  breathless  air. 
The  priest  prays  on,  but  you,  you  come  no  more, 
You  come  no  more,  the  sunbeams  play  in  vain, 
For  your  light  step  has  passed  beyond  our  sun 
To  greater  suns,  and  radiant  on  that  shore 
Have  faded  utterly  your  thoughts  of  pain 
While  in  your  eyes  the  joy  of  life  begun. 


[24] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


IN  MEMORIAM:  TO  HELEN  MONTAGUE 

THE  blue  wistaria  hovers  'round  her  door 

To  whisper  soft  the  message  of  the  spring 
And  seems  to  sigh,  "Where  is  she  wandering 
While  April  skies  the  new-born  earth  bend  o'er 
With  dewy  eyes,  e'en  as  young  mothers  pore 

On  dreamy  babes,  lulled  by  the  murmuring 
Of  circling  angels  on  unwearied  wing?" 
Ah,  droop  sweet  blooms !  she  will  return  no  more. 
No  more,  no  more :  fall  petals  like  quick  tears ! 
Rain  perfumed  sorrow  where  her  shadow 

passed ! 
Ye  may  not  rise  where  her  pure  spirit  rose, 

Where  spring  undying  smiles  through  endless 

years — 
Peace,    peace,    we    know    in    all    God's 

garden,  vast, 
No  saintlier  soul,  no  lovelier  flower  blows. 


[25] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


STEPHEN  PHILLIPS,  BANKRUPT 

How  shall  men  call  you  "bankrupt,"  you  who  hold 
The  treasure  of  a  deathless  line  of  kings, 
Who,  musing  'midst  the  surge  of  awful  wings, 

With  lifted  eyes,  unwearied,  calm  and  bold 

Can  span  the  infinite  and  see  unfold 

The  shrinking  beauty  of  all  hallowed  things, 
While  sun  to  sun  in  joy  eternal  sings 

And  far-flung  stars  burn  through  a  rain  of  gold? 
Life,  Love  and  Death  are  yours  to  understand; 
The  cry  of  winds  and  laughter  of  the  sea, 

The  lore  of  days  to  come  and  days  long  dead, 
All,  all  is  yours;  and  if  with  empty  hand 

Men  pass   you  by,   still   shall  your  soul 
be  free 

E'en  though  your  body,  fettered,  lacks  for  bread. 


[26] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


AFTER   READING  AN  ANTHOLOGY  OF 
FUGITIVE  VERSE 

THESE  have  survived  the  seas'  vicissitudes 

And  lie  at  rest  within  this  quiet  bay. 

No   more  of   shifting  tides   and   flickle  winds   in 

play— 

These  Tyrian  galleys  know  soft  interludes, 
When  o'er  their  cargo  some  old  lover  broods 
And  sees  again  a  verse  that  slipped  away, 
Or  hears  a  mocking  bird  in  moonlit  May 
Make  vocal  Nature's  holiest  haunting  moods. 
Dream  ships,  we  never  thought  to  look  on  more, 
Saint  Anthony  has  tipped  your  spars  with  fire 
And  salved  you  from  the  menace  of  the  night. 
Rest,  fairy  craft,  rest  on  a  fairy  shore! 
Faint  bells  ring  welcome  from  a  viewless  spire, 
While  in  the  dusk  the  evening  star  grows  bright. 


[27] 


ON  AN  OLD  HYMN  BOOK 

PUBLISHED    IN    1780 

THE  hands  that  turned  the  pages,  long  ago, 

Of  this  old  hymnal,  were  they  young  or  old? 
They  were  a  woman's, — see,  the  dim  leaves 

fold 

A  rusted  needle !  small  the  eye ;  we  know 
No  man  could  thread  it,  nor  might  old  eyes  show 
The  narrow  way :  then,  too,  old  hands  are  cold. 
Hence,  she  was  young,  blue-eyed,  with  hair 

of  gold? 
Brunette?     Maybe,    none   lives    who    light   might 

throw. 

These  pages  reek  of  sinners  and  their  hell. 
What  were  her  thoughts  when  these  sad 

hymns  were  sung? 

Stained  are  the  leaves — blest  by  her  virgin  tears? 
Shrined  she  his  violets,  to  keep  them  well? 
Ah,  they  are  dust,  these  two,  who  once 

were  young — 
Dust,  in  the  wreckage  of  an  hundred  years. 


[28] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


TO  A  GENIAL  OLD  MAN 

PAN  may  be  dead,  but  Santa  Glaus  remains, 
And  once  a  year  he  riseth  in  his  might. 
Oft  have  I  heard,  in  silences  of  night, 

Tinkling  of  bells  and  clink  of  reindeer  chains, 

As  o'er  the  roof  he  sped  through  his  domains, 
When  youthful  eyes  had  given  up  the  fight 
To  glimpse  for  once  the  rotund,  jolly  wight, 

Who  in  a  trusting  world  unchallenged  reigns. 
Last  and  the  greatest  of  the  gods  is  he, 

Who  suffereth  little  children  and  is  kind; 

And  when  I've  rounded  out  my  earthly  span 
And  face  at  last  the  Ancient  Mystery, 

I   hope,   somewhere  in   Heaven,   I   shall 
find 

Rest  on  the  bosom  of  that  good  old  man. 


[29] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


DAWN 

ON  earth  was  silence,  even  the  vast  seas 
In  inarticulate  whispers  met  the  shore. 
Hushed  were  the  woods.     Unlearned  in  lyric 

lore, 

Birds  flitted  mute  among  the  arching  trees 
Untuned  as  yet  to  winds'  slow  harmonies. 

From  towering  heights  unsullied  streams  did 

pour 

In  leaping  radiance,  but  to  sing  forebore; 
Without   a   sound   they   danced   through   fragrant 

leas. 

Slow,  above  all  uprose  the  splendid  sun ; 
Then  for  the  first  time,  breathless  land  and  deep 
Saw  God's  great  banner  of  the  day  unfurled. 

Creation  woke  its  awful  race  to  run, 
While  Adam  stood,  freed  from  the  mist  of  sleep 
And  gazed  in  wide-eyed  wonder  on  the  world. 


[SO] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


THE  WAVE 

MAJESTIC,  slow,  full  of  mysterious  grace, 

Where  sea  and  sky  unite  in  one  pure  tone, 
Rises  the  wave  and  journeys  forth  alone, 

Folding  the  spindrift  in  its  huge  embrace, 

Rearing  its  crest  as  if  it  would  efface 

An  ancient  enemy,  unseen,  unknown, 
Who  mocks  forever  from  an  ageless  throne 

And  sees,  serene,  the  ending  of  the  race. 

Now,  a  vast  tremor  leaps  along  its  length; 

Irresolute,  it  seems  to  fear  the  shore; 

Then,  with  tumultuous  onslaught,  joyous  hurls 
Its  thunderous  bulk,  filled  with  demoniac 
strength, 

On  the  still  sands  with  heaven-invading  roar, 

While  ravening  foam  in  aimless  eddies  swirls. 


[31] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


ALL  HAIL,  ROMANCE ! 

WHEN  from  the  grass  the  dew  of  Dawn  has  fled, 
When  rose  leaves  fall  unheeded  to  the  ground, 
When  larks'  pure  hymns  seem  only  senseless 

sound; 

In  short,  when  Age,  Life's  book  has  nearly  read 
And  closer  than  the  living  seem  the  dead, 

While  we  await  their  dreamless   sleep,   pro- 
found, 

All  hail !  Romance,  that  enters  with  a  bound, 
And  leaves  us  not  alone,  uncomforted, 

Oh,  glorious  resurrection  of  dead  Youth! 

Not  dead  but  sleeping,  ah,  the  hours  were 

long, 
We    deemed   you    stark   beneath    Time's    careless 

sands. 

Hail,  Splendid  Lie!  triumphant  over  Truth; 
Once    more    we    live,    clear-eyed,    cour- 
ageous, strong; 
We  are  not  old,  not  ours  these  trembling  hands. 


[32] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


MAIS  OU  SONT  LES  NEIGES  D'ANTAN? 

(But  where  are   the  snows  of  yesteryear?) 
THEIR  disembodied  souls,  where  do  they  stray, 
In  Hell's  mid  murk,  or  in  Elysian  air? 
And  are  they   changed,  does   song  give  place  to 

prayer  ? 

None,  none  can  answer,  either  yea  or  nay. 
Perhaps  they  wander  down  a  moonlit  way, 
With  eyes  of  haunting  question,  not  despair, 
And  seek,  in  vain,  for  one  companion  rare 
Whose  memory,  blazing,  burns  with  purest  ray. 
I  feel  it  truth  that  Cleopatra's  smile 
Makes  glad  the  nodding  fields  of  asphodel, 
That  Sheba's  queen  her  borrowed  wisdom  lends 
To  Pluto  reigning  with  endearing  guile; 
That  Helen's  eyes  still  weave  their  ancient  spell, 
While  over  all  a  perfect  peace  descends. 


[33] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


SUNDAY  IN  THE  FOREST 

WITHIN  the  dim  cathedral  of  the  pines 

Floats  subtly  sweet  the  incense  from  far  fields, 
And  one  lone  worshiper,  a  wood  lark,  yields 

Light-hearted  praise  to  One  whom  it  divines 

Made  the  green  leaves  when  sun  too  fiercely  shines 
And  in  a  nook  undreamed  of,  yet  safe,  shields 
From  the  thin  lance  usurping  Winter  wields 

When  o'er  the  world  he  hurls  his  conquering  lines. 
The  Lord  is  in  His  holy  temple  here, 

Unvexed  by  any  thunderous  organ's  peal, 

Nor  hedged  about  by  warring,  man-made  creeds. 
Like  to  His  lark,  to  me  it  all  seems  clear — 
Lord,   I   look  up   and  smile,   I   will  not 
kneel — 

Thou  hast  no  pleasure  in  a  heart  that  bleeds. 


[34] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


CONVICTION 

WHAT  am  I,  Lord,  that  Thou  shouldst  stay  Thy 

hand 

The  while  I  wander  on  my  aimless  way? 
But  still  Thy  mercy  spares  me.    Day  by  day 
I  see  Life  like  a  fragrant  rose  expand, 
Yet  e'en  Thy  rose  I  cannot  understand. 

Lo,  there  are  those  who  walk  Thy  narrow  way 
With  tear-dimmed  eyes  and  thinning  locks  of 

gray 

Who  from  their  youth  obeyed  Thy  last  command 
Mayhap,  in  Thy  mysterious  design 

Thou  hast  a  place  I  presently  shall  fill. 
Now,  only  this  I  feel  convinced  I  know: 

That  sullied  streams  and  waters  crystalline 

Alike  do  course  obedient  to  Thy  will 
Till  whelming  ocean  purifies  their  flow. 


[35] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


TO  SWINBURNE 

AFTER  READING   "THE   DUKE    OF  GANDIA" 

FAINTS  now  thy  fire  unto  the  ashes  gray 

That  once  assailed  the  stars  in  leaping  flight; 
Here  flitful  flickerings  foretell  the  night 
That  holds  no  hope  of  any  after  day, 
No  dream  of  verse  like  rainbow-tinted  spray 
That,  in  a  pagan,  waked  the  old  delight — 
Joy  that  was  man's  ere  came  the  withering 

blight 
Of  labor  o'er  a  world  all  flushed  with  play. 

Hail  and  farewell !    Thy  gods  be  good  to  thee 
And   bear   thee   to    some   island    of   thy 

dreams 

Where  sighs  the  surf  along  a  shadowy  shore; 
Lull  thee  to  rest  with  that  old  harmony 

Thou  wovest  here  with  light  and  wind 

and  streams 
Until  Olympian  Jove  the  old  days  may  restore. 


[36] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


"THE  DUKE  OF  GANDIA" 

A  MARBLE  temple,  lonely,  on  a  hill, 
Chastely  correct  throughout  its  whole  design 
But  lacking  that  which  stirs  the  blood  like  wine 
Or  makes  the  pulse  beat  with  a  hastier  thrill. 
Block  after  block  rose  at  the  Master's  will 
To  fill  the  space  decreed  by  square  and  line, 
But  absent  is  the  touch  men  term  divine; 
Distant  it  seems,  forbidding,  austere,  chill. 
Within  its  echoing  aisles  there  slowly  stalk 
Strange  figures  alien  unto  every  age, 
Having  no  heart  for  human  love  or  hate, 
Sexless  they  seem  and  like  a  dream  their  talk: 
O  Master,  tell  us  why  didst  thou  engage 
Upon  a  voyage  for  shores  so  desolate? 


[37] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


DEATH  OF  ASE 

(PEER  GYNT  SUITE) 

LIKE  wistful  ghosts  beneath  a  waning  moon, 
Seeking  a  land  they  have  no  hope  to  find: 
Roving  as  homeless  as  a  fitful  wind, 
Faint  notes  arise  and  soft  to  silence  swoon. 
To  silence  swoon,  but  not  to  death,  for  soon 

They  wake  once  more  and  in  the  soul  unbind 
Vague  memories  that  through  dim  ages  pined 
To  rend  their  cerements  and  stare  at  noon. 
For  whom  these  tears  that  all  unbidden  rise? 
What  star,  now  dust,  looked  on  an  agony 

That    had   no    hearer    as    its    grief    out- 
poured ? 
No  answer  in  the  moaning  music  lies, 

And  at  the  shadowy  Gate  of  Mystery 

Stands   the   mute   angel   with   his   lifted 
sword. 


[38] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


POE 

His  was  a  moonlit  mind,  where  never  strayed 
The  candid  sun.    Among  its  hills  and  vales 
Danced   ghostly   shapes   with  wild   demoniac 

wails 

That  chilled  the  blood  and  made  the  soul  afraid. 
Upon  his  peace,  Want,  like  a  vulture,  preyed, 

While  o'er  him,  fainting,  sang  the  alien  gales 
Of  chill  rebukes  and,  at  the  last,  love  fails, 
And  then  to  rest  his  piteous  clay  was  laid. 
Ah,  we  who  jest  beneath  the  genial  sun 
And  laugh  along  our  mediocre  way, 

Unwitting  of  the  burden  that  he  bore, 
Let  us  forget  the  calumny  he  won, 

And  for  his  soul  in  love  and  pity  pray — 

Poor   wanderer   from   Night's   Plutonian 
shore. 

Across  the  peaceful  skies  of  dreaming  night, 

Through  startled  space  a  blazing  meteor  flies 

Flouting  the  sober  stars  who  mark  its  flight 

Past  their  dim  ranks  to  where  God's  spend- 
thrift dies. 


[39] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


BY  THE  SEA:  A  MEMORY 

BENEATH  this  roof  may  hours  serenely  glide 

Light-winged,  like  birds  whose  song  is  full  of 

spring, 

Joyous  with  sun  and  faint  sweet  whispering 
Of   flowers,   new-born,   that   wind-swayed  grasses 

hide. 

Here,  may  you  dream,  forgetful  of  the  tide 
Of  fierce  endeavor;  may  its  murmuring 
No  memory  of  unlovely  cities  bring 
To  hush  Pan's  pipe,  old  Pan  who  has  not  died. 
And  when  wild  winter  holds  the  ruthless  town 

In  icy  grasp  and  winds  cry  mournfully, 
Closing  your  eyes,  may  you  forget  the  blight 

And  see  again,  where  misty  moors  lead  down, 

Unwearied  still  in  summer's  rhapsody 
The  long  waves  languishing  in  golden  light. 


[40] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


VENTOSUS 

UNDYING,  ageless  minstrel  of  all  time, 

Lightly  thy  hand  o'er  viewless   strings  slow 

strays 

While  once  again  the  glories  of  old  days 
Mirage-like  rise  in  every  age  and  clime. 
Tempestuous  now,  the  storm  of  Homer's  rhyme 
Whispers    to    silence,    while   young    Marsyas 

plays 

To  dancing  Dryads,  prodigal  with  bays, 
Forgetful  of  Apollo — the  sublime. 

Silence     again — whence     was     that     sobbing 

moan  ? 
With  peaceful  stars  Night's  azure  dome 

is  set 

And  in  rapt  stillness  dreams  each  olive  tree — 
Ah !  God  of  Mercy — 'tis  Thy  Son,  alone, 

Upon  His  brow  I  see  the  bloody  sweat, 
In  the  dim  garden  of  Gethsemane. 


[41] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


"SLAVE"  OF  MICHELANGELO 

UNDYING  soul  of  utter  loveliness — 

Oh,  kiss  of  God  breathed  on  a  drooping  rose ! 
When  I  behold  thee,  lo !  a  strange  wind  blows 
From  some  far  land,  where  never  weariness 
Nor  pain  nor  sorrow  may  the  heart  oppress. 

In  their  sad  place  triumphantly  there  flows 
Majestic  harmony,  and  with  it  goes 
The  soul,  abandoned  to  its  strong  caress. 
Thy  lids  are  heavy,  oh,  immortal  slave ! 

But  thy  veiled  eyes  see  planets  in  their 

flight 
And  read  the  pity  in  God's  love-lit  eyes. 

Thy  anguished  brows  the  winds  of  Heaven 

lave 
And    'neath   thy   head    an   angel's   hand 

rests  light 
While  'round  thy  feet  the  blooms  of  Paradise. 


[42] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


"VICTORY"  OF  SAMOTHRACE 

"THE  Outcry  of  Old  Beauty" — ah,  what  spell, 
What  witchery  undying  of  old  days 
Oft  lures  the  soul  down  well-remembered  ways 
The  while  it  hears  some  far-off  music  swell. 
In  that  dim  land  where  only  spirits  dwell 

The    weary    soul    with    languorous    rapture 

sways, 
As     Memory's    hand    o'er    plaintive    minors 

strays, 
While  to  the  eye  the  eager  tear  drops  well. 

Thou  living  triumph  o'er  destroying  Time, 
Wide- winged  Victory  of  Samothrace! 
Oh,  mighty  melody  of  carven  stone ! 
Crystallization  of  an  age  sublime, 

Serene  thou  movest  with  majestic  pace, 
Omnipotent — immutable — alone ! 


[43] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


TO  FRANK  L.  WOODRUFF 

LIKE  incense  from  the  swelling  buds  of  spring 
Bird  notes  rise  softly  in  the  purer  air, 
Buoyant  with  hope,  unshadowed  by  despair, 
Gone  and  forgot,  their  winter  wandering. 
Again  glad  streams  their  world-old  lyrics  sing, 
God's    perfect    peace    seems    floating    every- 
where, 
While    all    the    world    grows    palpitant   with 

prayer — 

Grief  rules  my  heart — Grief  with  the  broken  wing. 
Oh !  what  to  me  the  pageant  of  the  year, 

The  miracles  of  water,  trees  and  grass, 
The  lark  that  carols  blithely  overhead, 

When  he  is  gone,  courageous,  full  of  cheer, 
For  nevermore  shall  speech  between  us 

pass — 
Silent  he  lies,  my  friend,  my  friend,  alas,  is  dead ! 


[44] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


JUDAS  (I) 

BEHOLD,  O  God,  Thy  mandate  is  obeyed! 

What  now  remains  for  me  whom  Thou  didst 

call 

In  some  dim  age  when  Thou  ordained  the  fall 
Of  unborn  man?     I  have  betrayed 
Him  whom  I  loved,  yes,  Him  who  oft  hath  prayed 
For  my  dark  soul  that  knew  no  hope  at  all, 
Yet  strove  with  Fate's  inexorable  wall 
That  hemmed  me  till  His  purchase  price  was  paid. 
Thou    hast    Thy    Son,    but    I    have   lost   my 

Friend, 
Yes,  "Friend"  He  called  me,  bending  to 

my  kiss 

That  made  Hell  shudder  in  its  deepest  hold; 
His  look  did  both  a  love  and  sorrow  blend, 
That  stunned  me  so  I  scarce  could  hear 

the  hiss 
From  those  who  bought  the  sacrifice  I  sold. 


[45] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


JUDAS  (II) 

WHERE   shall  I  turn?     Earth  hath  no  place  for 

me — 
Thy  pure  stars  pierce  me,  but  they  give  no 

sign 

To  me,  poor  pawn  in  tragedy  divine. 
Fain  would  I  take  Thy  place  upon  the  tree — 
Aye,  set  at  naught  Thy  breaking  heart's  decree; 
Bear   all    Thine   anguish:    glory    that   'twere 

mine! 

Alas!  what  is  my  feeble  will  to  Thine? 
Still  art  Thou  God  though  rent  with  agony. 

O  Friend,  O  Brother  Christ,  I  lay  life  down, 

And  in  the  night  my  soul  shall  go,  alone, 
Remembering  the  forgiveness  in  Thine  eyes — 
Give  me  oblivion  now  Thou  hast  Thy  crown; 
Let  me   behold    Thee,   smiling,   on   Thy 

throne, 
Then,  bid  me  sleep,  sleep,  nevermore  to  rise. 


[46] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


GOLGOTHA 

DEATH'S  shadow  lengthens  in  the  anguished  eyes 
That  scan  the  faces  of  the  throng  in  vain 
For   answering  love  that  might  assuage  the 

pain — 

But  only  hate  and  mockery  in  them  lies. 
Unto  a  thief  a  wanton  shrilly  cries 

And  hums  the  light  notes  of  a  desert  strain, 
While  Caesar's  men  beat  back  the  Jews  again; 
Then  all  is  silent  save  his  piteous  sighs. 

Withered    and   old,   and   racked   by   hopeless 

tears, 

A  woman  gazes  on  the  nail-pierced  feet. 
Lo !  Christ  beholds  her,  then  bursts  forth  His  cry 
That  rings  undying  through  the  rolling  years, 

While  Mary  listens  to  her  heart  repeat: 
"Eli,  Eli,  lama  sabacthani !" 


[47] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


DEATH  OF  SAMSON 

SIGHTLESS,  between  these  pillars,  see  me,  God, 
Mocked  by  these  swine  whose  drunken  jests 

uprise 
And  make  Thy  night  wince  with  their  ribald 

cries. 

My  soul  still  lives,  though  cowering  in  a  clod — 
A  temple,  blasted  by  Thy  awful  rod. 

Oh,  if  for  me  forgiveness  in  Thee  lies, 

Or    thought    of    vengeance    on    these    who 

despise, 

Then  by  the  wild  ass  let  their  clay  be  trod. 
Only  this  once,  Lord,  let  me  know  again 

The  bygone  glory  of  Thy  gift  divine. 
Thy  name  be  hallowed !    Lo,  I  feel  the  might 

Sweeping  triumphant  through   each  withered 

,    vein ; 
Let  me  die  with  them!     Oh,  glad  arms, 

entwine 
The  lofty  stones.     Hail,  ruin  and  delight! 


[48] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


DAVID'S  GRIEF 

MY  city  sleeps.     Oh,  would  that  I  could  sleep — 
Blot  out  the  mockery  of  the  peaceful  skies 
That  bend  above  me  and  o'er  him  who  lies 
Guiltless  in  death.     I  sowed,  and  now  I  reap. 
Was  it  for  this  You  lured  me  from  my  sheep — 
To  blind  with  tears   an  old  man's  dimming 

eyes, 

To  see  life's  light  fade  out,  no  more  to  rise, 
To  break  the  heart  that  doth  his  image  keep? 
Ah,  once  again  upon  my  cheek  I  feel 

The   childhood   glory   of  his   hair,  light 

blown. 
My  arms  are  empty.     Never  more  to  run, 

The  tireless  feet — no  artless  voice  appeal. 
Death    hath    forgot    me!     Old,    and    all 

alone. 
O  my  son,  Absalom ;  my  son,  my  son ! 


[49] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


ROBERT  E.  GONZALES 

WE  cannot  think  your  voice  forever  still; 
The  words  grow  dim  that  tell  us  this  is  so, 
Alas,  none  dreams  the  mockingbird  will  go 
When  bubbling  notes  the  Summer's  beaker  fill 
And  warm  a  sullen  world,  against  its  will, 
Until  once  more  the  flutes  of  Childhood  blow 
From  misty  lands — the  Lands  of  Long  Ago, 
Where  Beauty,  dancing,  has  no  thought  of  ill. 
O  brave  Gonzales !     Unafraid  you  tread 
Amid  the  stars  your  homeward,  happy  way, 
Your  welcome  sure  in  the  great  Halls  of  Light. 
Farewell,  bright  soul!  'tis  we,  not  you  are  dead, 
And  speechless,  by  your  unrememb'ring  clay 
We  sense  the  sweep  of  angels'  wings  in  flight. 


[50] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


IN  MEMORIAM:  TO  GREATER  CLOVER 

UPON  the  bosom  of  undying  France 

He  lies  at  rest,  who  gave  her  all  he  had. 

Youth,  love,  old   friends — he   left  them  all — was 

glad; 

Knowing  their  love,  he  cast  no  backward  glance. 
A  kingly  knight,  he  ran  to  meet  his  chance 
To  battle  with  incarnate  lust  gone  mad, 
Whose  growing  shadow  made  the  whole  world  sad, 
Where  children,  tearful,  met  their  mothers'  glance. 
He  is  not  dead !    Such  souls  can  never  die ! 
They  are  like  stars,  with  paths  beyond  our  ken; 
We  glimpse  them  for  a  moment,  as  they  go 
To  thrill  with  glory  other  lands  that  lie 
Perhaps,  in  darkness.     They  will  come  again 
Or  we  shall  find  them — God  has  willed  it  so. 


[51] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  BOY 

Now  sleep,  forever,  rests  upon  thine  eyes 
And  bears  away  all  sorrow  and  all  pain ; 
No  pang  at  all  does  thy  frail  flesh  retain; 
In  viewless  fields  thy  spirit  singing  flies 
Far  from  this  shattered  temple,  and  the  sighs 
Of  us  whose  tears  fall  fast  like  Winter  rain, 
Remembering    what    was,    and    shall    not    be 

again 
Until  we,  too,  forsake  our  earthly  guise. 

Fold  the  small  hands  across  the  quiet  breast, 
Hands  that  have  found  the  door  of  endless 

peace. 
Ah !  if  in  benediction  they  could  lie 

Upon  our  hearts  so  anguished  and  distressed, 
Mayhap  our  sorrow  then  would  find  sur- 
cease 
In  that  thou  blest  us  as  thou  passed  by. 


[52] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


A  PRAYER 

HELP  me  to  do  Thy  will,  but  not  through  fear 
Of  wrath  Divine.     The  flowers  of  fear  are  cold 
And  have  no  fragrance.     Let  me  then  uphold 
To  Thy  glad  glance,  untroubled  and  sincere, 
The  gorgeous  blooms  of  love.    Oh,  let  no  tear 
Shine  in  their  leaves:  bid  them  be  bright  and  bold 
To  speak  my  love,  which  grows  in  being  told 
And  blesseth  me  in  that  Thou  drawest  near. 
Shall  I  not  love  Thee?     Lord,  can  I  forget 
Thy  ceaseless  care  since  I  began  to  be? 
And  all  the  griefs  averted  who  can  know? 
None,  none,  save  Thee  who  their  stern  onslaught 

met. 

Ah,   incomplete,  thanks   fail,  how  utterly ! 
Let  Thou  my  love,  reflecting  Thy  love,  glow. 


[53] 


A  SONNET  CYCLE 


DUST 

SILENCE  and  night  beneath  the  churchyard  mold, 
Gone  is  the  sky — only  the  coffin's  lid 
Have  I  for  outlook — all  the  rest  is  hid. 
Yet,  far  above,  the  wind  along  the  wold 
Makes  melodies  as  in  the  days  of  old. 
Perhaps,  a  lark  in  heaven's  pure  deeps  amid 
Pours   forth  its  soul,  and  I,  how  shall  I  rid 
My  crumbling  frame  of  this  triumphant  cold? 
In  empty  eyes  strange  shapes  do  writhing  grope ; 
My  folded  hands  their  progress  can  not  stay; 
Helpless  I  lie  while  red,  liquescent  rust 
Wages  slow  ruin  in  the  House  of  Hope. 
Voiceless  am  I,  either  to  curse  or  pray 
Upon  the  rayless  road  to  dust,  dust,  dust. 


[54] 


BALLADS 

PERSONAL    AND    PATRIOTIC 


BALLADS 

PERSONAL   AND    PATRIOTIC 


STRANGER,  PAUSE  AND  PRAY  FOR  THE 
REPOSE  OF  BRINDLE 

BENEATH  this  turf  lies  faithful  Brindle, — 
No  more  with  love  his  eyes  will  kindle; 
No  more  his  tail  waves  to  and  fro 
In  eloquence  men  never  know; 
Stilled  evermore  the  honest  bark 
We  knew  so  well  and  loved  to  mark. 
In  some  dog  paradise  he  strays 
With  noble  dogs  of  nobler  days. 
Perhaps,  he's  one  of  Dian's  pack, 
With  Argus  greets  Ulysses  back, 
Or  Laelaps  met  him  when  he  came 
And  told  the  other  dogs  his  name. 
His  heart-beats  ceased,  but  in  the  noble  eyes 
There  lingered  yet  affection's  dying  fire, 
So  loath  to  go,  so  sad  with  foiled  desire 
Dimmed  by  the  mists  of  Death,  so  swift  to  rise. 
There  was  no  sound,  the  golden  words  men  prize 
Seemed  mean  and  poor  debased  by  earthly  mire. 
He  was,  and  is  not — thoughts  that  would  not  tire 
[57] 


BALLADS 

Stranger,  Pause  and  Pray  [CONTINUED] 

Moaned   through   our   minds   with   pitiless   soft 

cries. 

No  more,  no  more,  of  all  sad  words  the  worst, 
That  hold  no  blessing  now  or  hope  to  be, 
That   have   no   power   to   raise   this   languished 

head, 

That  bring  no  water  to  our  sorrow's  thirst. 
He  lived  and  loved  and  ne'er  again  shall  be — 
Old  Brindle,  our  beloved  dog,  is  dead. 

God  grant  that  when  our  time  shall  be, 
When  o'er  Death's  cold  and  sunless  sea, 
That  the  first  anthem  we  remark 
May  be  old  Brindle's  "welcome"  bark. 


[58] 


BALLADS 


TO  BLOOMERS,  FAITHFUL  BULLDOG 

THE  night  is  dark,  and  the  wild  wind  singeth 
A  sorrowful  song  in  the  rain-lashed  trees — 
And  my  heart  is  sad  with  a  grief  that  clingeth 
And  cries  for  tribute  for  hours  of  ease. 

Far  down  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  out  yonder 
She  lieth  alone  in  the  cold  and  wet, 
And  this  is  the  thought  that  I  sit  and  ponder — 
Does  she  dream  in  her  sleep  I  will  never  forget? 

Ah,  this  is  the  room  where  we  played  together 
In  idle  moments  ere  lamps  were  lit, 
And  this  is  the  chair  with  the  old  red  leather 
Where  when  she  was  weary  she  loved  to  sit. 

Never  again  will  she  run  to  meet  me, 
Bringing  me  home  at  the  close  of  day; 
Never  again  will  her  glad  eyes  greet  me, 
Full  of  the  love  that  she  could  not  say. 

Does  she  know  that  her  memory  runneth  ever 
Like  some  clear  stream  through  a  barren  land, 

[59] 


BALLADS 

To  Bloomers,  Faithful  Bulldog  [CONTINUED] 

Till  death  shall  the  heart  and  brain  dissever? 
Does  she  know  all  this?     Can  she  understand? 

If  I  knew  that  she  knew — but  who  shall  discover 
The  ways  of  death,  whether  pleasure  or  pain? 
I  can  see  that  the  heavens  are  black  above  her, 
I  can  hear  the  scourge  of  the  pitiless  rain. 


[60] 


BALLADS 


IN  ARCADY 

IN  Clovercroft,  Arcadia, 
'Tis  there  that  I  would  be 
To  watch  God  at  his  miracles 
That  seem  wrought  just  for  me — 

Ah,  blessed  eyes  that  see! 

In  Clovercroft,  Arcadia, 
When  gently  thrills  the  wheat, 
I  feel  old  friends  are  passing, 
Though  I  may  not  stay  their  feet — 

But  mine  shall  be  as  fleet. 

In  Clovercroft,  Arcadia, 
How  soft  the  breezes  blow ! 
They  murmur  like  loved  voices 
I  never  more  shall  know — 

Hushed,  ah,  so  long  ago! 


[61] 


BALLADS 


"FAR  AWAY  AND  LONG  AGO"— 

JUST  the  title  of  a  book 
Wherein  I  may  never  look, 
Yet  the  magic  of  the  phrase 
Raises  ghosts  of  other  days. 
Luminous  they  float  along — 
Bits  of  laughter,  bits  of  song, 
Glimpses  of  forgotten  dawns, 
Dewdrops  on  fresh  upland  lawns, 
All  the  beauty  treasured  so, 
Far  away  and  long  ago; 
Crescent  moons  by  clouds  half  veiled, 
Mists  along  a  river  trailed, 
Whispers  in  gay  autumn  leaves, 
Stealthy  raindrops  on  the  eaves. 
Ah,  vanished  days  of  long  ago, 
Why  is  it  that  we  miss  you  so  ? 
What  subtle  charm  did  you  possess 
Whose  mem'ry  is  a  soft  caress 
Whene'er  we  retrospective  grow? 


Was  it  of  life  we  did  not  know, 
And  dreamt  that  joy  outbalanced  woe, 
[62] 


BALLADS 

"Far  Away  and  Long  Ago" — [CONTINUED] 

That  now  we  feel  its  emptiness, 

Ah,  vanished  days  ? 
Or  is  it  to  Time's  touch  we  owe 
The  distant  picture's  roseate  glow  ? 


[68] 


BALLADS 


WATER 

MAKER  of  melody  since  time  began, 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  till  Time  shall  be  no  more. 
Oh,  sing  to  me  the  old  unwritten  score 
That  the  young  stars  share  with  the  dreaming 

Pan. 

Thy  notes  the  gulf  of  vanished  centuries  span, 
But  float  unheeded  on  a  lifeless  shore. 


AN  OLD  SEA-CAPTAIN 

LOVER  of  ships  and  kinsman  of  the  seas, 
Rapt  rambler  in  far  stellar  spaces  clean, 
Alien  for  you  the  cities'  tawdry  sheen 
Where  Life's  glad  wine  grows  bitter  on  foul  lees. 
These  have  no  spell  your  hoyden  Muse  to  please, 
Who  laughs  with  glee  when  through  the  rigging 

keen 

Winds  rage  and  buffet  cloudy  spars  that  lean 
To  meet  the  spindrift's  leaping,  stinging  tease. 


[64] 


BALLADS 


THE  COMET 

HAUNTER  of  solitudes  vast; 
Of  awful,  untenanted  spaces — 
Even  the  voice  of  Jehovah 
Whispering,  dies  at  their  threshold: 
Vainly  seeking  their  confines, 
Weary  his  all-seeing  eyes. 
Out  of  the  ultimate  night 
Thou  rushest  in  terrible  splendor. 
Wrecks  of  forgotten  worlds 
Whirl  in  thy  desolate  train; 
Sweep  past  old  orbits  remembered 
Through  millions  of  centuries  gone. 
Shrinking,  the  virginal  stars 
Reel  from  thy  limitless  pathway, 
While,  like  blown  sands  of  the  desert, 
Magnificent  suns  mark  thy  speed. 


[65] 


BALLADS 


SONG  OF  THE  LIBERATED 

DEEP,  deep,  underground, 
Here  is  neither  light  nor  sound. 
Here  we  lie  in  sleep  profound, 
Dreaming  when  we  shall  awaken, 
Careless   that  we  are  forsaken, 
Many  friends  their  way  have  taken 
To  the  small  house  'neath  the  mound. 

Rest,  rest,  here  is  calm 
For  our  still  hearts  have  no  qualm 
Where  Oblivion  pours  her  balm. 
Overhead  birds  may  be  singing, 
Flowers  amid  the  grasses  springing, 
To  the  breeze  their  perfume  flinging 
Like  a  soul's  unconscious  psalm. 

Life,  Love,  both  are  done. 
Tears,  laughter,  they  are  one. 
What  care  we?     Our  race  is  run. 
But  to  those  above  us  straying 
We  would  whisper  "Cease  not  playing, 
Let  your  lives  be  one  long  Maying, 
Here,  none  cares  who  lost  or  won." 

[66] 


BALLADS 


A  BALLADE  OF  NOVEMBER 

NOVEMBER  winds  shriek  by  my  door 
And  drive  the  homeless  leaves  of  spring; 
Where  now  their  pageantry  of  yore? 
Where  now  their  summer  blossoming? 
Where  now  the  birds  once  wont  to  sing 
Fleet  songs  of  poignant  ecstasy? 
I  fancy  Fate  is  murmuring: 
"Never  again  shall  these  things  be." 

These  fragile  leaves,  so  stripped,  so  poor, 
Saw  many  a  dawn  its  radiance  fling 
Across  high  Heaven's  shadowed  floor 
And  heard  the  day's  awakening; 
Saw  the  moon's  scythe  unwearying 
Harvest  the  stars  from  sea  to  sea — 
For  you,  dim  ghosts,  where'er  you  cling 
Never  again  shall  these  things  be. 

Oft  from  the  tales  of  Dryads'  lore 

I've  heard  you  faintly  whispering 

Or  rapt  upon  a  river's  shore 

You  heard  the  Naiads'  thoughts  take  wing, 

While  rain  elves  would  thin  music  bring 

Full  of  an  ancient  witchery. 

[67] 


BALLADS 

A  Ballade  of  November  [CONTINUED] 

Poor  leaves,  dead,  unremembering ! 
Never  again  shall  these  things  be. 

Prince,  see  our  fire  is  languishing — 
Pile  on  more  logs,  set  new  sparks  free! 
See  how  they  die  a-hurrying — 
Never  again  shall  these  things  be. 


[68] 


BALLADS 


"DE  SENECTUTE" 

IN  youth,  when  success  is  a  passive  prize, 

Smiling  we  lift  life's  waiting  gauge; 
Young  blood  is  hot,  and  we  quite  despise 

The  trifling  battle  that  man  must  wage. 

But  grateful  the  truce  that  comes  with  age, 
When  the  sun  is  stayed  on  the  world's  wide  rim — 

Ah,  then  is  the  time  for  the  lettered  page, 
When  cheeks  are  faded  and  eyes  are  dim. 

Alone  by  the  fire,  when  the  daylight  dies 
And  the  restless  wind  begins  to  rage, 

While  the  scurrying  sparks  in  the  chimney  rise; 
Shall  I  in  fancy  a  place  engage 
With  Laurence  Sterne  in  the  Paris  stage — 

Or  have  Uncle  Toby  and  Corporal  Trim 
A  sounder  claim  on  my  patronage, 

When  cheeks  are  faded  and  eyes  are  dim? 

Alas,  alas,  how  Old  Time  flies 
When  in  such  verdant  pasturage. 

I'  faith  I  must  philosophize, 
And  Seneca  is  the  proper  sage 
When  nearly  through  life's  pilgrimage, 

[69] 


BALLADS 

"De  Senectute"    [CONTINUED] 

Or  Socrates — why  leave  out  him? — 

Since  he  can  also  ills  assuage, 
When  cheeks  are  faded  and  eyes  are  dim. 

When  the  soul  despairs  in  its  rusting  cage 
And  deems  forgetful  the  warder  grim, 

Books  are  a  man's  best  heritage 

When  cheeks  are  faded  and  eyes  are  dim. 


[70] 


BALLADS 


AFTER  MANILA 

HARKEN,  O  merciful  God!     Give  ear  to  the  pray- 
ers of  a  nation 
Treading  with  resolute  steps  the  paths  pointed  out 

to  our  fathers. 
Bloody  and  blackened  with  war,  let  us  kneel  for 

awhile  at  Thine  altars, 
Craving  Thy  blessing,  O  Lord!     O  do  Thou  guide 

and  direct  us: 
Make  us  the  sword  of  Thy  wrath:  let  our  cannon 

echo  Thy  thunder! 
Vengeance  is  Mine,  saith  the  Lord;  I  will  repay, 

saith  Jehovah. 
Strengthen  our  arms  and  uphold  us,  for  without 

Thee  we  are  helpless; 
Then  shall  our  birthright  of  Freedom  be  shared 

with  our  down-trodden  brother; 
And  Thine  be  the  glory,  O  Lord — yea,  Thine  be 

the  glory  forever! 


[71] 


BALLADS 


OVER,  OVER  THERE! 

NORTH,  South,  East,  West, 

They  are  sending  forth  their  best 

O'er  the  Hun-infested  brine, 

To  their  places  in  the  line, 

With  the  Britons  and  the  French 

In  the  hellish,  hard  held  trench, 

See  them  stand! 

Mother,  father,  sister,  wife, 

Could  not  keep  them  from  the  strife; 

With  a  courage  high,  eternal, 

They  have  dared  the  strife  infernal; 

JEons  hence  will  song  and  story 

Hymn  their  names  and  unsought  glory 

Through  the  land. 

They  will  choke  the  German  brute, 
End  his  ravishing  and  loot, 
Harry  him  with  steel  and  shell, 
Bind  him  in  his  bloody  hell; 
Then  across  the  peaceful  foam, 
Joyous  will  they  journey  home, 

Calm  and  bland. 
[72] 


BALLADS 

Over,  Over  There!  [CONTINUED] 

North,  South,  East,  West, 
Glory  to  thy  children  blest! 
Blood  o'  Christ  were  spilt  in  vain, 
Did  they  fail  to  forge  a  chain 
That  would  bring  a  lasting  peace, 
And  humanity's  release — 

From  the  Hun. 


[73] 


BALLADS 


"THE  BELOVED  VAGABOND" 

DEAR  Allison,  your  likeness  is  enthroned 
Above  my  books — a  most  congenial  clime, 
That  knows  not  rigor,  nor  the  flight  of  Time. 
'Tis    holy    ground,   where    fairy    horns,    faint 

toned, 

Still  lure  Youth's  galley  to  a  land  disowned 
Yet  lives  forever  in  its  prose  and  rime; 
Where  Sorrow   fades,  like   some   far-distant 

chime 

And  where  one  finds  his  ev'ry  sin  condoned. 
"A  Land  of  Make  Believe,"  I  hear  you  say? 
Ah,  no,  old  friend,  'tis  very  real  to  me, 
The  silent  converse  of  these  quiet  men. 
And  thus,  I  know  there  will  be  many  a  day 
When  I  shall  hear,  in  well  beloved  key, 
Your  voice,  e'en  of  old,  and  so — Amen! 


[74] 


BALLADS 


"DOWN  IN  OLD  VIRGINIA" 

WAY  down  in  Old  Virginia 
Where  the  mountains  kiss  the  skies, 
And  whose  waters  flowing  seaward 

Croon  their  dreamy  lullabies. 

Where  the  waving  pines  make  music 
For  every  wand'ring  breeze, 
While  the  surf  on  far-off  beaches 
Seems  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees. 

Within  thy  jeweled  house  of  night 
The  whip-poor-will  makes  moan, 
But  all  the  golden  deeps  of  dawn 
The  mocking-bird  will  own. 

Above  thy  daisied  meadows 
The  vagrant  clouds  soft  float — 
So  loath  to  leave  thy  loveliness 
For  ruder  climes  remote. 

State  love's  no  doubt  a  glorious  thing, 

But  this  is  what  is  true, — 
Since  you  are  in  Virginia, 
Why  for  me — Virginia's  you. 

[75] 


BALLADS 


"COUSIN  JANE" 

COUSIN  JANE,  Cousin  Jane, 
Let  me  say  your  name  again, 
For  its  mere  enunciation 
Adds  a  brightness  to  creation, 
Ah,  we  are  a  blessed  Nation 
Having  you — Cousin  Jane. 

Always  sympathetic,  kind, 
To  the  faults  of  others  blind, 
You  are  like  a  stately  flower 
Lovelier  with  each  passing  hour, 
Drawing  with  compelling  power 
All  our  hearts — Cousin  Jane. 

"Just  a  woman" — that  is  all, 
And  I'm  glad  of  Adam's  fall. 
You  don't  care  to  run  man's  race, 
Not  for  you  the  voting  place, 
For  serene,  with  queenly  grace 
You're  supreme — Cousin  Jane. 

Cousin  Jane,  Cousin  Jane, 
Grateful  sunshine  after  rain, 
[76] 


BALLADS 

"Cousin  Jane"  [CONTINUED] 

I  must  end  this  hymn  of  praise 
Wishing  you  unnumbered  days, 
While  "the  Club"  its  homage  pays. 
Au  revoir — Cousin  Jane. 


[77] 


BALLADS 


BEST  LOVE 

THOU  art  not  my  first  love, 

I  loved  before  we  met — 

The  memory  of  that  summer  song 

Is  pleasing  to  me  yet. 

No,  thou  art  my  last  love, 

My  sweetest  and  my  best; 

My  heart  but  shed  its  outer  leaves 

To  give  thee  all  the  rest. 


WEARINESS 

THE    wind    sighs    sadly    through    the    quivering 

leaves, 
As    though    some    mem'ry    dreaming    wakes    and 

grieves 

Its  restless  spirit  till  its  peace  has  flown 
And  left  it  murm'ring  to  itself  alone. 

Its  sound  recalls  the  dead,  forgotten  years, 
The  old  sweet  days  of  mingled  hopes  and  fears. 
Time  for  a  moment  stays  his  tireless  flight. 
My  soul  is  lonely,  I  am  tired  to-night. 
[78] 


BALLADS 


GOOD  NIGHT 

GOOD  NIGHT,  dear  heart; 

The  moon's  bright  barque 

Sails  softly  down  the  western  skies, 

And  still  I  linger  loath  to  part 

From  the  sweet  spell  of  your  dark  eyes. 

Good  night,  dear  heart; 

The  day  is  long, 

But  languorous  night  will  come  again, 

Sweet  time  for  lovers  set  apart 

To  taste  love's  cup  of  joy  and  pain. 


REUNION 

WHEN  my  time  comes  to  die  may  I  be  lying  in  some 
low-ceiled  room,  dimmed  by  advancing  shadows. 
By  my  head,  an  open  window  where  light  draperies 
float  and  cling,  in  gentle  airs  that  greet  the 
rising  moon — 

A  moon  half-veiled  in  drifting  clouds  and  seen 
through  budding  boughs  of  gnarled  old  apple  trees. 

So,  let  me  dream,  until  my  homeless  soul  shall 
merge,  unnoticed,  with  the  brooding  night. 

[79] 


BALLADS 


WHAT  THE  WIND  SINGS 

WHEN  I  was  a  child  I  loved  to  lie  upon  a  green 
hill-side  and  watch  the  clouds  drifting: 

Wondered  whence  they  come  and  whither  bound? 

The  music  of  the  wind  in  the  somber  pines  thrilled 
me. 

Often  I  felt  at  the  threshold  of  divining  the  mean- 
ing of  the  wordless  cadences. 

And  I  went  out  into  the  world  and  strove  as  best 
I  could. 

Now,  I  am  old  and  gray  and  I  should  love  to  lie 
upon  a  green  hill-side  and  watch  the  clouds 
drifting,  incurious  about  their  harbor. 

I  know  now  what  the  wind  sings  to  the  pines,  and 
I  am  very  weary. 


[80] 


BALLADS 


PRESENCES 

FOR  so  many  years  Death  seemed  to  me  a  horrible 
oppressor — a  cruel  and  malignant  giant. 
When  I  was  young  he  took  my  mother  and 
later,  oh,  so  many  of  my  friends.  And  some 
of  these  so  suddenly.  It  was  as  if  he  dashed 
his  uncouth  fist  to  a  child's  lips  just  parting 
in  a  song  of  the  joy  of  Life.  I  have  looked 
through  tears  into  the  open  graves;  felt  the 
bereaved  move  back  in  mute  agony,  while  my 
heart  echoed  the  sound  of  the  descending 
clods — "No  more,  no  more,  alas,  no  more." 

But  I  know  now  that  I  have  misjudged  Death. 
When  I  lie  in  the  quiet  of  a  country  night,  I 
feel  these  vanished  loved  ones  about  me.  I 
hear  no  word,  but  looking  up  at  the  Heavens, 
it  seems  as  if  the  star-shine  were  made  vocal: 
The  air  seems  full  of  pulsations  that  cannot 
rend  our  atmosphere  and  become  words.  Un- 
hearing,  I  know,  nevertheless,  the  message  my 
beloved  are  calling.  It  is  "Peace."  And 
again,  I  feel  the  tears  upon  my  lids,  but  they 
are  not  for  the  departed. 

[81] 


BALLADS 


"FINIS" 

THE  coals  are  dying  in  the  grate 

And  it  is  late. 
The  widening  shadows  on  the  wall 

Are  like  a  pall. 
And  ghosts  of  dead  leaves  scourged  with  rain 

Cling  to  the  pane. 
Yet  once  upon  a  happy  tree 

They  danced  in  glee. 
And  once  was  Youth,  and  Hope,  and  Thou, — 

Ah,  me ! — but  now — 
The  coals  are  dying  in  the  grate — 

And  it  is  late! 


[82] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

CHILDHOOD  VERSES  TO  THE  POET?S 
DAUGHTER,  JUDITH  AYLETT 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

CHILDHOOD  VERSES  TO  THE  POET*S 
DAUGHTER,   JUDITH   AYLETT 

JU-JU 

THERE  is  a  tiny  shallop  comes, 
Just  at  the  close  of  day 
And  into  it  my  baby  slips 
And  softly  sails  away. 

Away,  unto  the  land  of  dreams; 
A  country  free  from  care, 
And  only  little  children 
Can  ever  enter  there. 

The  little  boat  is  made  of  pearl, 
The  mast  of  purest  gold, 
Its  sails,  the  wings  of  butterflies 
The  roving  night-wind  holds. 

It  does  not  keep  to  ocean  lanes, 
Well  known  to  mundane  tars, 
But  navigates  the  Milky  Way 
And  cruises  'midst  the  stars. 
[85] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

Ju-Ju   [CONTINUED] 

Old  Ursus  Major  kindly  growls 
As  she  goes  flashing  by, 
The  Dog  Star  romps  along  behind 
With  joyous  canine  cry. 

They  chase  the  fire-fly  Pleiades 
And  flit  through  Saturn's  rings 
And  never  tire,  for  in  that  land 
Are  most  entrancing  things. 

But  sometimes  she  grows  hungry, 
From  all  the  boisterous  play, 
Then  Mercury  takes  the  Dipper  up 
And  skims  the  Milky  Way. 

And  perched  in  Cassiopeia's  Chair, 
She  drinks  her  little  fill, 
The  panting  Dog  Star's  mouth  is  wide 
To  catch  what  she  may  spill. 

They  coast  down  miles  of  moonbeams 
And  plait  the  comet's  tails, 
With  Gemini — the  Heavenly  Twins — 
They  skip  the  star  strewn  vales. 

But  oh !  I  am  so  lonesome 
This  time  she  is  away, 
Although  she  seems  to  be  still  here, 
As  with  her  hair  I  play. 
[86] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

Ju-Ju   [CONTINUED] 

And  many  times  while  she  is  gone 
I  brush  away  a  tear — 
"Suppose  she  should  forget  the  road 
From  'way  up  there  to  here?" 

I  cannot  hear  her  little  boat 
Grate  on  the  viewless  sands, 
I  only  know  that  she  is  back 
By  her  tiny  rose  leaf  hands. 

And  so  I  want  them  both  in  mine 
When  I  lie  down  to  rest 
So  when  she  comes  I  shall  awake 
And  help  her  to  her  nest. 


[87] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 


"TRAILING  CLOUDS  OF  GLORY" 

So  light  her  feet  upon  the  earth 
One  senses  unseen  wings — 
Dear  childish  feet,  that  stir,  perhaps, 
The  homeless  dust  of  kings. 

The  light  of  Heaven  lingers  yet 
Within  her  wond'ring  eyes — 
Pure  eyes  that  mirror  naught  of  life 
And  all  of  Paradise. 

To  that  Great  Chord,  we  know  as  God 
Her  soul  still  trembles  true, 
But  mine  will  never  breathe  again 
The  melody  it  knew. 

She  quivers  at  the  flush  of  Dawn 
And  reads  the  rhythmic  rain, 
The  hidden  harmonies  of  streams 
Know  they  are  found  again. 

For  her  the  new  born  Sun  God  flings 
Through  forests,  dim  and  old, 
Sheaf  after  sheaf,  the  prodigal, 
His  javelins  of  gold. 
[88] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

"Trailing  Clouds  of  Glory"  [CONTINUED] 

The  wind  steals  from  the  grassy  mounds, 

Half  hidden  on  the  hill 

To  linger  lightly  in  her  hair 

And  dream  that  it  was  chill. 

Oh,  lovely  Child!  would  I  could  win 
To  that  bright  world  of  thine, 
But  I  must  worship  from  afar, 
Thy  small  hand  clasped  in  mine. 

Into  the  outer  darkness  thrust, 

I  kneel  in  eager  prayer 

And  hear  the  hopeless  words  "Too  late, 

You  can  not  enter  there." 


[89] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 


SUPREME  COURT  DECISIONS 

MY  little  Ju-Ju,  just  turned  three, 
On  yesterday,  remarked  of  me: 
"My  Dad's  a  good  oF  man." 
The  wise  and  prudent  know  not  this, 
The  height  of  wisdom  they  must  miss, 
According  to  God's  plan. 

I  had  my  doubts  about  myself, 

For  I  have  none  of  this  world's  pelf 

And  little  knowledge,  too. 

But  now  I  have  no  care  at  all, 

I'm  unconcerned  o'er  Adam's  fall, 

I  really  think  I'll  do. 

For  when  St.  Peter  scowls  at  me 
Ju-Ju  will  cry,  triumphantly: 
"My  Dad's  a  good  oF  man!" 


[90] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 


"THE  FEMALE  OFFENDER" 

I'VE  many  friends  who  live  in  books, 
Old  friends,  I  made  when  young, 
And  well  I  know  just  how  each  looks; 
How  musical  each  tongue. 

And  oftentimes  I  hear  them  call 
With  voice  untouched  by  time; 
How  tenderly  their  accents  fall, 
In  classic  prose  or  rime. 

But  by  the  time  I've  put  away 
My  guest's  cane,  hat  or  wrap, 
I  gasp  in  sudden  disarray — 
And  Judy's  in  my  lap. 

Dear  child  of  Now,  what  does  she  care 
For  Lear's  tremendous  woe, 
Achilles'  wrath,  or  Circe's  snare, 
Or  topless  Troy  laid  low? 

The  blue  .ZEgean  had  no  deep 
Unfathomed  like  her  eyes, 
O'er  which  her  soul's  reflections  creep — 
White  clouds  in  April  skies. 

[91] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

'The  Female  Offender"  [CONTINUED] 

But  since  my  honored  guest  has  fled 
With  symptoms  of  distress, 
With  clumsy  hand  I  stroke  her  head — 
Oh,  aureate  loveliness ! 

Yet,  all  the  same  I  tell  myself 
When  she  is  tucked  in  bed 
I'll  tip-toe  back  unto  that  shelf 
And  read  that  book  I  read. 

I'll  read  and  smoke — Ulysses  smoked, 
In  fact,  I  know  he  did 
Because  he  never  grew  provoked 
But  did  what  ladies  bid. 

But  when  upon  my  antique  back 
I've  carried  her  upstairs, 
I've  felt  my  soul  upon  the  rack 
When  light  she  lisped  her  prayers. 

I  settle  down  and  once  again 
The  old  familiars  come, 
But  to  be  truthful,  now  and  then, 
My  mind  will  wander  some. 

I  crave  forgiveness  and  once  more 
My  friend  resumes  his  talk — 
I  wonder  if  I  shut  that  door, 
And  back  upstairs  I  walk. 
[92] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

"The  Female  Offender"  [CONTINUED] 

Yes,  back  upstairs  and  leave  my  friend, 
While  I  lean  o'er  her  nest, 
Unheeding  how  the  minutes  wend 
Since  each  one  brings  her  rest. 

How  rhythmic  is  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  her  untroubled  breast; 
God  seems  no  riddle  after  all 
But  only  dreamless  rest. 

And  so  I  never  go  downstairs 
When  I've  come  back  this  way. 
Old  friends  won't  talk  to  empty  chairs, 
I'll  lose  them  day  by  day. 

And  oh !  I  hate  to  lose  them  too, 
And  they  have  prior  claim, 
I  don't  know  what  to  do,  do  you? 
Now  isn't  this  a  shame? 


[93] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 


THE  WANDERER 

"BELIEVE  in  transmigration"  ?     Sure ! 
'Tis  an  old  tale  with  me, 
And  I  know  well  how  Noah  felt 
When  he  put  forth  to  sea. 

For  I  am  known  of  beasts  and  birds 
And  dwarfs  and  giants  too, 
I  am  so  used  to  all  of  these 
I  make  no  more  ado. 

But  oh,  it  is  the  gentlest  soul 
That  animates  them  all, 
For  Ju-Ju  is  the  loveliest  child 
I  know  since  Abel's  fall. 

I  own,  at  first,  I  felt  some  fear 
When  dozing  in  my  chair 
To  have  a  lion  pounce  on  me 
And  drag  me  to  his  lair. 

But  one  gets  used  to  anything, 
As  my  experience  shows; 
I  could  not  count  how  many  times 
The  Blackbird's  nipped  my  nose. 

[94] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

The  Wanderer    [CONTINUED] 

I  climb  the  bean-stalk  o'er  and  o'er 
And  get  the  Giant  worried, 
When  in  pursuit  he  falls  on  me 
I  never  now  get  flurried. 

Serene,  Red  Ridinghood  I  watch 
Go  idling  through  the  wood — 
A  Robber  Kitten  soon  she'll  be 
Who  never  more  '11  be  good. 

When  Peter  Rabbit  homeward  hikes 
From  stern  McGregor's  field, 
I  hide  him  in  my  scanty  lap 
Until  his  fears  are  healed. 

And  now  and  then  the  Pussy-Cat, 
Who  called  upon  the  Queen, 
Will  whet  her  claws  upon  my  legs 
Which  are  so  long  and  lean. 

I've  slept  with  bears  and  elephants 
And  waked  with  pirate  kings; 
Have  seen  the  Cow  jump  o'er  the  Moon 
And  various  other  things. 

Of  all  the  changes  that  she  has 
One,  I  love  most  of  all, 
Comes  with  the  dying  of  the  day, 
When  soft  the  shadows  fall. 

[95] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 

The  Wanderer  [CONTINUED] 

When  she  climbs  weary  to  my  lap, 
Her  own  dear  self  at  last 
Secure  from  any  further  change, 
The  long  day's  perils  past. 

Lightly  she  lies  upon  my  arm, 
Her  voice  a  whisper  grows, 
And  sleep  descends  upon  her  eyes 
Like  dewdrops  on  a  rose. 


[96] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OP  JU-JU 


FOR  JU-JU  IN  19— 

I  WRITE  these  lines,  that  in  some  far  off  day 
Your  eyes,  that  mirrored  me,  may  look  them  o'er 
And  hear  me  whisper  from  an  unknown  shore 
A  deathless  love,  though  I  who  write  be  clay. 
Oh!  let  me  write  them  quickly,  while  I  may, 
Each  fleeting  hour  I  loved  you  more  and  more; 
What  my  youth  lacked  your  childhood  did  restore — 
Ah,  dear,  how  eagerly  I  watched  your  play! 
And  I  would  tell  you,  little  child  of  mine, 
You  never  gave  to  me  a  moment's  pain, 
But  many  times  your  little  hands  did  bless 
And  turn  Life's  bitter  water  into  wine; 
And  so,  I  yearn  to  speak  to  you  again 
And  comfort  you  in  unguessed  weariness. 


[97] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 


MIST 

SHE  used  to  climb  upon  my  knees; 
Hands,  light  as  rose  leaves,  closed  my  eyes, 
Then,  "  'tendin'  like"  the  chairs  were  trees, 
She'd  hide,  while  bird-like  notes  would  rise — 
"Daddy,  come  find  me!" 

And  sometimes  in  her  dreams  at  night, 
Alarmed,  may  be,  by  culprit  fay, 
She'd  find  my  hand  and  hold  it  tight; 
In  tears  and  laughter  she  would  pray — 
"Daddy,  come  find  me!" 

The  pity  of  the  stars  is  mine; 
The  requiem  that  the  night  winds  sings 
Dies  in  a  melody  divine — 
But  ah,  the  golden  bell  that  rings — 
"Daddy,  come  find  me!" 


[98] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 


JUDY 

TO-NIGHT  I  left  her  while  she  slept 

With  curly  head  upon  her  arm, 

And  as  I  through  the  darkness  crept 

I  prayed;  "Christ  keep  her  from  all  harm. 

"Thou  wast  thyself  a  little  child 
And  looked  with  love  upon  the  world 
To  find  thyself  despised,  reviled, 
And  all  thy  blessings  backward  hurled. 

"But  thou  couldst  gaze  through  fleeting  space 
To  where  God  sorrowed  on  his  throne, 
And  read  the  love  writ  on  his  face 
And  know  thou  wast  not  all  alone. 

"Therefore,  I  pray  thee,  Lord  divine, 
Thy  hand  in  benediction  lay 
On  her  bright  head,  this  child  of  mine, 
And  smile  upon  her  night  and  day. 

"Oh,  let  her  glimpse  Thee  when  the  sun 
Bursts  from  the  sepulcher  of  night, 
While  golden  streams  ecstatic  run 
Where  sing  Thy  oceans  in  their  might." 

[99] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 


FATHER'S   SINS  FORGOT 

I  WATCHED  my  child  at  play  before  the  fire 
Croon  softly  to  the  dancing  shadows  there 
With  eager  hands  which  were  full  fain  to  snare 
The  dusky  shapes  that  mocked  at  her  desire. 
At  last  the  hopeless  game  began  to  tire, 
The  little  hands  grew  quiet,  ceased  the  air, 
And  slowly  crawling  to  her  mother's  chair 
Soon  gentle  sleep  paid  all  her  labors'  hire. 
Then — lo!  a  ray  of  light  illumed  my  soul, 
God's  ways  grew  plain;  old  fears  were  dashed 

aside. 

O  Christ !  I  prayed,  though  I  reach  not  the  goal 
Thou  wilt  receive  me,  though  in  vain  I  tried; 
Thou  wilt  write  fair  my  life's  oft  blotted  scroll, 
Thy  arms  will  bear  me  o'er  Death's  slumb'rous 

tide. 


[100] 


FROM  THE  BOOK  OF  JU-JU 


WHEN  JUDY  READS 

WHEN  Judy  reads,  old  words,  outworn, 
Seem  fresh  as  June's  most  dewy  morn; 
They  wear  once  more  their  ancient  dress 
And  dance  in  nymph-like  loveliness — 
To  sun-beam  notes  from  fairy  horn. 

I  hear  the  wind's  feet  o'er  the  corn, 
The  doves  amid  the  elms,  forlorn — 
Life's  lightest  music  wakes  to  bless, 
When  Judy  reads. 

Yet,  those  trite  words  I  viewed  with  scorn, 
Unguessed  the  rose,  so  plain  the  thorn; 
But  when  her  childish  lips  caress 
Those  worn  old  words,  in  tenderness, 
I  wish  I  too,  might  be  reborn — 
When  Judy  reads. 


[101] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

BUSINESS  MAN  SAMPSON  TO  POET 
SAMPSON 

On  the  Occasion  of  his  Fortieth  birthday, 
April  26,  1910 

TIME  for  you  to  settle  down, 
Time  to  quit  your  fooling, 
Gray  the  hair  that  once  was  brown, 
Youth  should  now  be  cooling. 

Time  for  you  to  meditate 
On  the  years  you've  wasted; 
Sinner,  turn  ere  'tis  too  late 
And  in  hell  you're  basted. 

Forty  years  I've  spent  with  you, 
Not  without  compunction, 
Yet,  you've  scorned  my  friendship  true, 
Scoffed  each  fond  injunction. 

Why  can't  you,  a  married  man, 
With  two  winsome  daughters, 
[105] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

Sampson  to  Sampson  [CONTINUED] 

On  Parnassus  put  the  ban, 
Cut  Pierian  waters? 

Fill  your  pipe  with  natural  leaf, 
Dream  of  business  matters ; 
Man,  you're  on  the  road  to  grief, 
Penury  and  tatters! 

Let  the  winds  and  waves  alone, 
They  are  busy  working, 
When  you  rant  of  roses  blown 
You  are  only  shirking. 

Forty  years  have  I  been  bored 
By  your  senseless  habits, 
Seen  them,  heedless  how  I  roared, 
Multiply  like  rabbits. 

Have  some  pity  on  me  now, 
Some  consideration, 
Or  I'll  pleasure  have,  I  vow, 
In  your  deep  damnation. 


[106] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


"ONE  POINT  OF  VIEW" 

"THE  Editor  of  Life  regrets 

He  can  not  use  the  stuff  enclosed." 

Still,  no  hard  feeling  he  begets ; 

"The  Editor  of  Life  regrets" — 

Alas,  poor  man:  coerced,  he  frets, 

And  may  not  act  as  he's  disposed — 

"The  Editor  of  Life  regrets 

He  can  not  use  the  stuff  enclosed." 


[107] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


"THE  WORM  TURNS" 

WHY  is  it  nearly  all  the  verse 
In  "high  class  magazines" 

Some  occult  ailment  does  rehearse 
Midst  deeply  tragic  scenes? 

The  authors  diagnose  their  ills 

Of  body,  mind,  or  soul, 
And  then  neglect  to  take  the  pills 

That  could  these  fits  control. 

The  editors  compound  these  crimes 
By  coddling  them  with  cash, 

While  countless  healthy  men  of  rimes 
Three  times  a  day  eat — hash. 

If  you,  or  I,  a  poem  send 
That  echoes  not  a  groan, 

Before  the  week  is  at  an  end 
The  "pome"  comes  back — alone. 

O  poets  in  the  cultured  east, 
Have  pity  on  us  pray — 

In  charity,  the  very  least 

Poor  dog  should  have  his  day. 
[108] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


MONTVILLE 

LONELY  it  stands  upon  a  gentle  hill 
And  looks  toward  the  pines  across  the  moor 
Wistful  and  sad  for  vanished  days  of  yore 
When   song   and   laughter   fleeting   Time   did 

kill. 

Now  all  is  silent  save  a  whip-poor-will, 
Whose  melancholy  notes  ring  o'er  and  o'er 
Like  some  damned  soul  upon  an  alien  shore, 
Unwilling  yet  its  shallow  grave  to  fill. 
And  this  was  Montville — here  came  LaFayette 
And  youthful  Henry  with  his  violin, 
Progenitor  of  mediocre  Pats — 
Yea,  these  dull  walls  that  knew  the  minuet 
And  echoed  oft  with  revelry  and  din 
Are  festooned,  decked  and  garlanded  with  bats. 


[109] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


FRIENDSHIP'S  OFFERING 

'For  thou  shalt  forget  thy  misery; 
Thou    shalt    remember    it   as    waters    that    are    passed 
away." 

I  GRIEVE  to  learn  you  have  succumbed  to  mumps — 
I've  never  had  them,  but  I  feel  for  you. 
What  do  I  care  if  April's  skies  be  blue? 
They  cannot  lift  me  from  the  doleful  dumps. 
Bleak  visaged  Sorrow  on  my  shoulder  humps 
And  drapes  my  Muse  in  garb  of  Stygian  hue. 
Music  consoles  me  not,  and  "bridge"  fails,  too, 
For  naught  care  I  if  hearts  or  spades  be  trumps. 
If  sinners'  prayers  had  any  weight  above 
I'd  say  a  million  masses  for  your  peace, 
Or  elbow  planets  from  their  flaming  ways 
And  e'en  Saint  Peter  from  his  gate-way  shove 
To    speak    the    word    that    might    win    your 

release — 

But  these  poor  blooms — how  shall  they  light 
your  days? 


[110] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


WHEN  YOUR  WIFE'S  AWAY 

OF  all  the  insidious 

Temptations  invidious 

Contrived  by  the  devil  to  pull  a  man 

down, 

There  is  none  more  delusive, 
Seductive,  abusive, 
Than   the   snare   of   a   man   with   his 

wife  out  of  town. 

He  feels  such  delightfulness, 
S  tay-out-all-nightf  ulness, — 
'Tis  one  without  pain; 
A  bachelor  rakishness, 
None  can  explain. 

His  wife  may  be  beautiful,  tender  and 

dutiful; 
'Tis  not  her  absence  would  cause  him 

delight; 

But  the  d — d  opportunity, 
The  baleful  immunity 
Scatters  his   scruples  as  day  scatters 

night. 

[Ill] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


OLD  YADKIN  CORN 

OLD  Yadkin  Valley  Corn !  Ah,  amber  tinted  j  uice 
That  makes  an  ashen  tinted  world  burst  into  flower, 
Annihilating  Care;  filling  each  barren  hour 
With  golden  sunshine.    Shall  I  abstain — what  use  ? 
When  I  have  thee,  thou  art  thy  best  excuse. 
When  patient  merit  bows  to  usurped  power 
Why  should  I  give  my  soul  for  Envy  to  devour? 
So  'raus  mit  care!     Be  on  your  way — vamoose! 
Yes,  let  me  tip  the  faithful  jug  once  more 
And  learn  the  legends  of  a  hundred  happy  hills 
And  know  again  the  song  the  stars  sang  once  before 
The  days  of  saw-mills,  cotton  gins  and  other  ills. 
Yet  once  again,  until  the  unnoticed  floor 
Glides  gently  up  and  further  dalliance  kills. 


[112] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


REFLECTIONS  ON  DIETING  AND 
DOCTORS 

WHEN  I  look  o'er  a  bill  of  fare 
And  see  the  things  there  are  to  eat, 
My  heart  grows  sick  with  grim  despair 
To  think  that  /  must  not  touch  meat. 

The  coy  Lynnhaven  fears  me  not, 
Nor  lobster,  nor  the  shrinking  clam. 
"Just  vegetables"  are  my  lot, 
And  for  them  I  don't  give  a  damn. 

Black  pepper,  too,  I  must  forswear, 
And  vinegar,  that  adds  a  zest, 
So  now  for  salads  I  don't  care, 
When  near  the  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  puny  pickle,  too,  is  barred, 
The  mango  and  the  sprightly  dill; 
Ye  gods !  but  life  is  passing  hard 
When  such  wee  things  may  make  us  ill. 

And  Burgundy  and  Scotch  and  ale, 
Plebeian  beer  and  Dublin  stout, 

[lift] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

Reflections  on  Dieting  [CONTINUED] 

Sauternes,  liquors  and  gin  so  pale, 
The  heartless  Doctor  has  cut  out. 

The  liquor  leaps  within  the  glass; 
The  planked  steak's  incense  fills  the  air; 
But  they  mean  naught  to  me,  alas ! 
I  have  to  think  I  do  not  care. 

No  doubt  for  doctors  there  is  use — 
They  bring  us  to  this  world  of  sin — 
Yet,  surely,  with  but  small  excuse 
They  often  send  us  out  agin. 

The  Doctor  is  all  right,  I  guess, 
As  poor  misguided  doctors  go, 
But  he  has  made  my  life  a  mess — 
A  dreary  wilderness  of  woe. 

And  when  I  take  my  golden  harp 
And  swat  a  husky  chord  in  G, 
I  trust  I'll  see  that  Doctor  sharp 
Well  damned  for  all  eternity. 

SAMPSON  AGONISTES. 


[114] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


TO  A  POLYPHONIC  POET 

To  your  polyphonic  prose 
God,  perhaps,  the  answer  knows.   .    .    . 
As  a  dewdrop  in  the  sun 
Mirrors  all  it  looks  upon, 
So  should  verse,  it  seems  to  me, 
Have  a  hint  of  verity. 
Verity,  with  changing  hue, 
Unsuspected  prospects,  new. 
Where  a  brook  slips  o'er  a  stone 
Vocal  makes  its  cryptic  tone, 
Lift  one  to  a  high  surmise 
That  a  beauty  latent  lies. 
Pushing  old  horizons  back, 
Followed  still  by  gleaming  track 
Till  no  more  life's  baffling  bars 
Block  the  pathway  to  the  stars. 
All  your  statements  seem  so  bald, 
Do  your  spirits  come  when  called? 
Should  you  write  "the  skies  are  blue," 
Would  one  guess  a  wider  view? 
Hear  the  whirring  wings  of  birds, 
Scent  the  breath  of  grazing  herds, 
Catch  the  secrets  of  the  grass 
Told  to  vagrant  winds  that  pass? 

[115] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

To  a  Polyphonic  Poet  [CONTINUED] 

No,  I'd  see  the  printed  page — 
Set  like  good  Queen  Bess'  stage, 
"This  a  horse"  and  "this  a  tree," 
"This  a  castle  by  the  sea." 
Ah,  your  words  are  lifeless,  dead, 
Lapped  in  dull,  funereal  lead. 
I  am  sorry  this  is  so 
For  an  old  man  loves  the  glow — 
Loves  to  hear  words  hiss  and  burn 
Ere  they  back  to  ashes  turn, 
Whispering  of  forgotten  springs 
And  of  unremembered  things; 
So  I  lay  "Can  Grande"  by — 
Would  I  did  so  with  a  sigh. 


[116] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


"WORDS,  WORDS,  WORDS !" 

I  READ  a  poem  yesterday 
That  touched  my  world-worn  heart, 
And  I  was  not  ashamed  to  feel 
Tears  to  my  old  eyes  start. 

Those  verses  freed  me  for  a  time 
From  every  fear  and  care; 
I  thought  I  heard  the  seraphs'  wings 
Beat  softly  Heaven's  pure  air. 

But,  gentle  reader,  ask  me  not 
That  poem's  words  or  sense, 
For  neither  could  I  understand — 
Which  shows  it  was  immense. 


[117] 


COVERLY 

OF  all  the  many  visits  I  have  paid 

That  one  to  Coverly  was  far  the  best. 

I  did  not  do  one  blessed  thing  but  rest, 

By  thought  of  host  or  hostess  undismayed. 

I  felt  like  Adam  did  when,  neglige'd 

And  all  forgetful  of  his  coming  test, 

He   loafed   and   loafed   and   thought   himself 

well  blessed 

That  his  Creator  such  a  long  time  stayed. 
True  hospitality,  alas,  is  rare, 
Since  self-effacement  is  too  great  a  load 
For  average  hosts  to  bear  with  smiling  face. 
Therefore,  believe  me,  Lady,  when  I  swear 
That  Heaven  for  me  will  make  no  good  abode 
While  mem'ry  holds  of  Coverly  a  trace. 


[118] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


BALLADE  OF  OLD  TIME  BARTENDERS 
"They  are  all  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces." 

GAY  priests  of  Bacchus  that  I  once  knew  well, 
Take  ye  this  farewell  tribute  from  a  friend; 

A  sprig  of  mint,  in  fields  of  asphodel, 

May  bring  ye  cheer  and  in  its  fragrance  tend 
To  breathe  on  Memory's  ashes  till  they  send 

Abroad,  once  more,  their  Apollonian  gleam 

And  drive  the  mists  from  Lethe's  sleepy  stream. 
Here's  hoping  that  a  happier  day  may  dawn; 

Meanwhile,  I  drowse  and  query  in  each  dream: 
"Old  time  bartenders,  whither  have  ye  gone?" 


Around  your  ruined  shrines  what  memories  dwell 
Of  royal  Bourbon  and  full  many  a  blend! 

I  had  a  friend  who,  blindfolded,  could  smell 

And  call  each  famous  brand.     He  could  depend 
On  nose  alone.  Where  doth  that  nose  now  wend? 

Mnemosyne!  we  two  could  fill  a  ream, 

Keening  these  lovers  with  their  single  theme. 
Perhaps,  now,  on  some  paradisal  lawn, 

They  pour  old  Burgundy,  with  ruby  beam: 
"Old  time  bartenders,  whither  have  ye  gone?" 

[119] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 

Ballade  of  Old  Time  Bartenders  [CONTINUED] 

Where  are  the  cocktails  that  ye  threw  pell  mell 
From  hand  to  hand  with  careless,  graceful  bend? 

The  frapped  absinthe  that  could  hurry  hell 
And  speed  the  traveler  to  his  journey's  end, 
And  give  the  lie  to  "Ne'er  too  late  to  mend?" 

Where  are  the  dusty  cellars,  wont  to  teem 

With  laughter  prisoned,  eager  to  redeem 

From  grasping  age  youth's  melancholy  pawn? 

Ye  will  not  heed  me,  though  distressed  I  scream: 
"Old  time  bartenders,  whither  have  ye  gone?" 

I/ENVOI 

Lord  Bacchus,  prithee,  hold  in  high  esteem 
These  splendid  brothers  of  old  Polypheme; 

Bend  down  thine  ear  to  me,  alone,  forlorn. 
When  dead,  my  first  request  will  be,  I  deem: 

"Old  time  bartenders,  whither  have  ye  gone?" 


[120] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


FORSAKEN 

SOMETIMES  I  think  she  has  not  gone  away: 
Here  is  her  book,  just  as  she  laid  it  by; 
Only  the  lilies  faded  in  it  lie 
In  mute  remembrance  of  a  happier  day. 
Her  chair  stands  empty,  in  the  firelight's  play: 
All  things  that  knew  her  seem  her  name  to  sigh 
And  Hope  is  dead  and  mocks  me  when  I  try 
In  Life's  dun  skies  to  find  one  golden  ray. 
My  little  child,  with  piteous,  tear  stained  face, 
Lisps  sadly  "When  will  Mother  come  again?" 
How  can  I  answer  her?     Aye,  there's  the  rub ! 
Oh,  let  us  fly  from  this  tormenting  place, 
Whose  ev'ry  aspect  thrills  with  cruel  pain 
When — Mother's  playing  "Auction"  at  the  Club ! 


[121] 


IN  LIGHTER  VEIN 


TO  OUR  GREAT-GREAT-GRANDFATHER, 
PATRICK  HENRY 

THE  Belgian  hare  could  nothing  to  you  show, 
Prolific  Patrick — what  a  family  man  ! — 
You  made  G.  Washington  an  "also  ran," 

And  saw  with  pride  your  sixteen  children  grow 

To  sixty  grandchildren,  ere  Death  laid  low 
The  founder  of  a  universal  clan: 
Placed  on  your  infant  industry  the  ban, 

And  hushed  the  lullabies  we  fain  would  know. 
The  cradle  in  your  house  was  never  still: 
It  was  the  Rock  of  Ages,  so  to  speak, 

And  whilst  you  rocked,  were  dreams  of  freedom 

spun, 

'Midst  infants'  cries,  distracting,  piercing,  shrill. 
And   yet,   we   learn,   when   History's   page   we 
seek — 

"The  Father  of  his  country — Washington!" 


[122] 


JUVENILIA 


JUVENILIA 


"WITH  PIPE  AND  BOOK  BEFORE  THE 
FIRE" 

"May  blessings  rest  upon  the  head  of  him  who  invented 
books." 

WITH  pipe  and  book  before  the  fire, 
Kind  friends  and  true  which  never  tire, 
I'd  spend  my  life,  if  it  might  be, 
Nor  wish  for  better  company, 
Than  pipe  and  book. 

So  let  the  world  wag  as  it  will, 

A  cure  have  I  for  every  ill; 

Yet — if  its  spleen  my  mind  should  sour, 

There  on  my  shelf  is  Schopenhauer. 

Or  if  to  satire  I  incline, 

With  caustic  wit  in  every  line — 

See — there  in  yonder  well-thumbed  row 

Is  Don  Francesco  Quevedo. 

Or  should  I  wish  wit  sugar-coated, 
There's  Q.  H.  Flaccus — margins  noted: 
[125] 


JUVENILIA 

"With  Pipe  and  Book"  [CONTINUED] 

And  if  in  atheistic  vein, 

I  know  just  where  to  find  Tom  Paine. 

And  would  I  view  life's  every  phase, 
See  every  passion  stripped  of  glaze 
By  one  who  stands  without  a  peer — 
I  need  not  say  'tis  Will  Shakespeare. 

The  clock  strikes  twelve  and  finds  me  idle; 
I  must  to  bed — O  where's  my  Bible? 


[126] 


JUVENILIA 


"I  WAS  A  STRANGER  AND  YE  TOOK 
ME  IN" 

(To  Mrs.  Jane  Ewing  Speed) 

I  DO  not  sing  of  strangled  love, 
Mad  kisses — last  caresses: 
For  her  as  true  as  heaven  above, 
My  pen  the  paper  presses. 


I  sing  of  her  whose  kindly  ways 
Bring  me  a  world  of  pleasure. 
Sweet  sunlight  of  my  weary  days, 
I  love  her  past  all  measure. 


A  sympathetic  ear  she'll  lend 
To  all  my  boyish  troubles; 
And  when  an  hour  with  her  I  spend, 
My  cares  dissolve  like  bubbles. 

My  ragged  socks  she'll  neatly  darn, 
On  my  old  clothes  put  patches: 
Look  if  you  will,  but  let  me  warn 
'Tis  not  on  earth  her  match  is. 

[127] 


JUVENILIA 

'I  Was  a  Stranger"   [CONTINUED] 

God  bless  her  cheery,  loving  face 
And  shield  her  from  all  danger 
And  give  her  heaven's  highest  place, 
Who  took  me  in — a  stranger. 


[128] 


JUVENILIA 


"HENCE  VAIN,  DELUDING  JOYS" 

COME,  my  old  pipe,  when  love  grows  cold, 
When  pleasure  slips  the  eager  hold, 
When  trusted  ones  in  anger  turn, 
And  low  the  fires  of  friendship  burn — 
Come,  my  old  pipe. 

Come,  my  old  pipe,  your  blackened  bowl 
Holds  solace  for  my  weary  soul; 
What  care  I  if  M.D.'s  do  say 
Your  fragrant  smoke  curtails  life's  day? — 
Come,  my  old  pipe. 

Come,  my  old  pipe,  the  smoke  rings  curl 
And  glide  and  twist,  and  writhe,  and  whirl: 
And  though  old  death  your  stem  bestride, 
His  fleshless  phiz  we  will  deride. 
Come,  my  old  pipe. 


[129] 


JUVENILIA 


RETROSPECTIVE 

AH,  to-night  I  need  your  cheering, 
Dearest  heart  that  I  call  mine; 
In  my  mind  your  face  appearing 
Vanishes  like  beads  in  wine. 

And  to-night  the  miles  seem  longer 
That  do  keep  us  still  apart: 
Maybe  'tis  love  growing  stronger 
Makes  this  tempest  in  my  heart. 

All  alone — of  thee  I'm  dreaming 
'Neath  the  rustling,  moon-kissed  trees; 
Is  it  real,  or  is  it  seeming, 
That  your  voice  steals  down  the  breeze? 

Yet  my  spirit  feels  your  presence 
Though  your  face  I  can  not  see; 
In  the  moonbeams'  iridescence 
See  you  smiling — sweet,  on  me. 

In  the  gray  east — dawn  is  breaking, 
But  you  still  are  far  away; 
In  my  heart  the  old  pains  aching 
As  I  enter  the  new  day. 
[130] 


JtTVENILIA 


A   RIME   WITHOUT   REASON 

IN  the  shadowy  aisles  of  the  forest 
The  crimsoning  leaves  drift  down, 
As  the  rare  and  radiant  jewels 
Fall  from  a  moldering  crown. 

And  caught  by  the  idling  zephyrs, 
They  sail  in  the  hazy  light 
Far  over  the  hills  and  the  valleys, 
Till  lost  to  the  straining  sight. 

The  sorrowing  wind  in  the  tree  tops 
Chants  a  requiem  for  the  dead; 
Naught  else  is  heard  but  their  rustle, 
And  the  caw  of  a  crow  overhead. 

And  the  spectral  mist  from  the  river, 
Like  the  wraith  of  the  summer  that's  dead, 
Glides  slowly  on  through  the  valleys, 
As  if  sad  for  the  golden  days  fled. 

And  my  heart  as  I  stand  in  the  gloaming 
Is  full  of  unspeakable  pain, 
A  wild  undefinable  longing 
For  something  I  never  can  gain. 

[131] 


JUVENILIA 

A  Rime  Without  Reason  [CONTINUED] 

Ah,  I  know  that  I  never  shall  find  it, 
Though  I  lived  till  the  tottering  world 
Is  plunged  headlong  from  its  orbit, 
Through  the  depths  of  eternity  hurled. 

But  the  sad-voiced  wind  in  its  moaning 
A  nepenthe  gives  to  my  soul, 
For  it  too  hath  the  same  ardent  yearning 
That  knows  not  respite  or  control. 


[132] 


JUVENILIA 


RONDEAU 

THREE  FIFTY-FIVE  !     I  would  alway 
That  we  here  side  by  side  might  stay; 
Alas,  Love's  reign  seems  ne'er  complete; 
And  yet  such  joys  must  needs  be  fleet  — 
The  curtain  falls  on  Passion's 


For  see  the  East  grows  softly  gray, 
Voluptuous  night  gives  place  to  day. 
God  —  but  the  hours  had  winged  feet! 
Three  fifty-five? 

But  what  shall  pass  the  time  away 
Till  kindly  night  resumes  her  sway 
And  I  beneath  your  window  —  sweet  — 
Shall  wait,  Love's  old  song  to  repeat? 

In  whispered  tones  I  hear  thee  say, 
Three  fifty-five? 

JUVKNIS. 


[133] 


JUVENILIA 


RONDEAU 

THREE  FIFTY-FIVE,  the  fire  burns  low. 
Half  dreaming  in  its  softened  glow, 
My  thoughts  drift  back  to  other  days 
That  faintly  gleam  through  golden  haze 
The  dear  dead  days  of  long  ago. 

Outside  the  wailing  wind  doth  blow 
Wrung  by  some  grief  I  can  not  know; 
The  clock  shows  by  the  moon's  cold  rays 
Three  fifty-five. 

Ah,  mocking  thoughts  that  wildly  flow, 
Strange  retrospect  of  joy  and  woe! 
One  specter  from  its  grave  you  raise 
To  which  my  sad  soul  vainly  prays. 

Ah,  God!  that  night  should  be  so  slow! 
Three  fifty-five? 

SENEX. 


[134] 


JUVENILIA 


NOCTURNE 

WHEN  shadows  fall  at  even-tide 

Sweet  thoughts,  that  with  the  day  must  hide, 

Steal  softly  through  the  idle  brain — 

Ah,  would  they  might  always  remain 

To  tint  with  gold  life's  darker  side. 

Alas !  the  hours  onward  glide 
Too  dear  by  far  to  long  abide, 
Sad  heart,  they  will  return  again 
When  shadows  fall. 

E'en  though  the  weary  miles  divide 
And  fears  rush  in — a  whelming  tide — 
Thy  mem'ry  comes,  a  sweet  refrain, 
And  stills  the  sighing  chords  of  pain. 
Once  more  to  thee  my  thoughts  have  hied, 
When  shadows  fall. 


[135] 


JUVENILIA 


INSANITAS  AMORIS 

A  DAINTY  thing  of  patent  leather, 
'Tis  useless  quite  in  stormy  weather, 
But  in  her  drawing-room's  confines 
My  eyes  will  seek  its  graceful  lines 
When  now  and  then  it  haps  to  peep 
From  where  her  skirts  all  jealous  keep 
Their  treasure  from  unhallowed  eyes — 
That  dear  "1-B,"  that  is  the  size, 
And  'tis  her  slipper  that  I  sing 
Ten  lines  for  just  that  tiny  thing. 


[136] 


A  HANDKERCHIEF 

I  THOUGHT  it  was  dead  though  long  was  its  dying, 
The  love  I  had  prayed  to  and  cursed  all  in  vain, 
I  smiled  when  I  saw  it  all  motionless  lying 
And  I  said  "God  is  good,"  'twill  not  waken  again. 

But  to-night  in  a  dainty  handkerchief's  laces, 
There  lingered  all  faintly  a  subtle  perfume, 
The  odor  she  loved — God  how  my  blood  races, 
Its  passionate  rush  would  my  hot  veins  consume. 

In  vain,  still  in  vain,  the  long  years  of  forgetting, 
The  peace  that  I  prayed  for  has  mocked  me  and 

flown  j 

All  useless  the  nights  and  the  days  of  regretting, 
As  futile  as  breath  o'er  a  mirror  once  blown. 

And  sadly  and  softly  the  night  wind  is  sighing, 
The  passionless  moon  to  the  horizon  slips, 
And  I  list  to  the  voice  of  the  past  and  its  crying, 
Alone  with  a  handkerchief  pressed  to  my  lips. 


[137] 


JUVENILIA 


"GOOD  MASTER  DEATH" 

GOOD  Master  Death,  when  thou  art  nigh, 
And  life  is  done  and  I  must  die, 
Give  me  no  time  for  vain  regrets: 
Perhaps,  the  good  the  bad  offsets, 
If  not  there  is  good  reason  why — 

'Twould  please  me  well  if  you  would  try 
In  some  lone  place  to  put  me  by, 
Where  life  eternal  never  gets — 

Good  Master  Death. 

Some  place,  you  better  know  than  I, 
Where  I  could  take  my  ease  and  lie 
In  dreamless  sleep  that  nothing  frets, 
That  immortality  forgets; 
Thou  wilt  not  this  small  boon  deny, 

Good  Master  Death. 


[138] 


JUVENILIA 


"NOW  SPRING  IS  BEGUILING" 

For  lo,  the  winter  is  past. 

SONG  OF  SOLOMON. 

Now  Spring  is  beguiling 

The  fancy  to  smiling, 
With  proof  of  her  presence  on  hill  and  on  plain: 

The  sunlight  beholding 

Shy  buds  are  unfolding 

And   the   brooks   have   forgotten   the    frost   king's 
reign. 

The  birds  are  all  singing, 

The  woodland  is  ringing 
With  echoes  of  many  a  mad,  merry  strain: 
A  truce  to  care  crying, 

We  banish  our  sighing, 
For  Nature  has  waked  from  her  slumbers  again. 

His  gay  course  pursuing, 

The  South  wind  is  wooing 
The  flowers  that  long  in  concealment  have  lain: 

From  petals  unbending 

Rare  fragrance  ascending 
Diffuses  its  sweetness  o'er  Nature's  domain. 

[139] 


JUVENILIA 

"Now  Spring  Is  Beguiling"  [CONTINUED] 

Uniting  and  rifting 

Light  clouds  idly  drifting 

Their  indolent  ways  through  the  blue  skies  main- 
tain: 

And  in  the  brooks  blending 

Their  gay  hues  unending, 
Reflected  they  dance  to  its  rippling  refrain. 

Soft   o'er   the   heart  stealing 

An  ecstatic  feeling, 
A  thousand  desires  awake  in  the  brain: 

A  rare  time  of  dreaming, 

Of  innocent  scheming 
And  fanciful  building  of  Castles  in  Spain. 


[140] 


JUVENILIA 


"THOUGH  CRITICS  SCORN  MY 
HUMBLE  LAYS" 

THOUGH  critics  scorn  my  humble  lays 
On  finding  naught  therein  to  praise, 
And  dub  me  upstart,  tyro,  fool, 
And  quote  the  child  and  edged  tool; 
I  do  not  look  to  them  for  bays. 

One  ray  of  comfort  with  me  stays 
That  all  their  heaped  abuse  repays, 
And  leaves   me  careless,   calm  and  cool 

Though  critics  scorn. 

Allons,  Messieurs — dissect  each  phrase. 
May  peace  attend  you  all  your  days, 
But  I  can  ne'er  respect  your  school, 
Or  bow  submissive  to  your  rule. 
Her  smile  all  else  with  me  outweighs 

Though  critics  scorn. 


[141] 


JUVENILIA 


"IN  VAIN  I  STRIVE" 

IN  vain  I  strive  to  pen  to-night 
A  rondeau  to  her  eyes  so  bright; 
But  ah!  my  verse  runs  all  awry, 
The  muse  is  jealous,  coy  or  shy 
And  all  my  adjectives  seem  trite. 

Alas !     I  am  a  luckless  wight 

That,  which  they  say  makes  labor  light 

Should  rob  me  of  pretext  to  cry 

In  vain  I  strive. 

But  in  thine  eyes  a  tricksy  sprite 
To  mock  my  efforts  takes  delight 
And  does  the  needful  calm  deny 
Which  must  be  mine  if  I  would  try 
The  theme  I  lay  down  hopeless  quite 

In  vain  I  strive. 


[142] 


JUVENILIA 


'TIS  HARD  FOR  ME  TO  IMPROVISE 

Lo!  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  best. 

RUBAIYAT. 

'Tis  hard  for  me  to  improvise, 

In  nothing  was  /  ever  wise; 

But  bowing  to  your  sweet  commands 

My  fickle  muse  obedient  stands. 

Emerson  has  said  somewhere 
That  Nature,  ever  just  and  fair, 
Is  satisfied  she's  done  her  duty 
With  making  the  one  gift  of  beauty. 

So  oft  we  find  the  brightest  mind, 
Where  we  least  dream  of  it  confined; 
For  Nature,  he  says,  compensates — 
(It  seems  her  favors  she  pro-rates). 

In  you  she  must  have  wished  to  see 
How  well  her  gifts  combined  could  be, 
And  sweet  success  has  crowned  her  pains — 
In  heaven  naught  more  perfect  reigns. 


[143] 


JUVENILIA 


"OH,  WHAT  AM  I  TO  HAVE  SUCH 
LOVE  AS  THINE?" 

OH,  what  am  I  to  have  such  love  as  thine 

As  freely  given  as  the  sun's  bright  rays  ? 

But  far  more  constant,  since  there  are  no  days 

When  in  thine  eyes  thy  pure  soul  doth  not  shine. 

Oh,  why  does  God  thus  cast  his  pearls  to  swine, 

To  lie  polluted  in  their  miry  ways? 

Unless  perchance  he  vainly  hopes  to  raise 

In  beasts  like  me  some  spark  of  the  divine. 

If  I  had  ever  helped  thee  by  one  word, 

Or  shared  with  thee  one  moment's  weight  of  pain, 

Or  laid  a  finger  on  thy  cares  that  gird, 

I  could  take  comfort — be  a  man  again; 

But  no — my  selfish  heart  is  never  stirred, 

And  meets  thy  sunshine  with  a  winter's  rain. 


[144] 


JUVENILIA 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 

THE  clang  and  tumult  of  these  iron  days 
Could  win  no  echo  from  his  hushed  string* 
But  softly  sometimes  came  the  whisperings 
Of  years  long  buried  in  oblivion's  haze 
And  touched  them  gently  as  a  wind  "that  plays 
'Midst  summer  boughs  with  tender  murmurings. 
Then  clear  and  sweet  the  mellow  music  rings 
While  life  turns  back  to  old  forgotten  ways. 


"THERE  IS  NO  HELL" 

THERE  is  no  hell  save  that  which  each  doth  make 
According  to  his  wish  or  heart's  desire. 
So  fear  it  not,  that  fabled  place  of  fire. 
A  heart  once  still  oh,  never  more  will  ache. 
Once  vice  was  sweet  but  soon  or  late  we  tire, 
And  then,  alas !  we  can  but  sit  and  rake 
O'er  ashes  cold  that  will  no  more  awake. 


[145] 


JUVENILIA 


THALASSA!     THALASSA! 
(The  Sea!  The  Sea!} 

THE  noise  and  tumult  of  the  city  breaks, 
Like  some  rude  sea,  against  the  buildings  high 
That  hem  me  round,  and  shut  out  the  blue  sky 
Which  is  man's  birthright,  although  he  forsakes 
The  gifts  of  Nature,  and  his  own  god  makes 
Of  hard,  bright  gold,  the  while  his  youth  slips  by. 
And  then — Death  comes  and  dims  the  eager  eye, 
And  earth  once  more  her  faithless  offspring  takes. 
I  close  my  eyes  for  one  brief  moment's  rest, 
And  lo!  the  memory  of  a  song  of  yours 
Hurries  me  off,  far  down  the  distant  West, 
Where  dash  the  waves  on  loud-resounding  shores, 
And  on  my  brows  the  wind's  cool  hands  are  prest, 
And  then  once  more  the  city  round  me  roars. 


[146] 


JUVENILIA 


"I  HAD  KNOWN  HER 
SO  LONG" 

I  HAD  known  her  so  long 
She  seemed  like  a  sister. 
Do  you  think  it  was  wrong! 
I  had  known  her  so  long, 
And  temptation  was  strong 
So  I  yielded  and — 
I  had  known  her  so  long 
She  seemed  like  a  sister. 


[147] 


JUVENILIA 


"THE  WIND  IS  MOANING  ABOUT 
THE   EAVES" 

THE  wind  is  moaning  about  the  eaves, 
The  wind  is  chill  and  the  night  is  black 
For  the  sky  is  blind  with  the  blown  storm  wrack, 
And  I  dream  of  days  that  will  ne'er  come  back. 
Love,  they  are  gone  like  last  year's  leaves. 

Love,  from  an  ultimate  peak  of  Time, 
In  Youth's  glad  meadows,  I  see  us  stand, 
While  glory  of  Spring  sweeps  over  the  land — 
Ah,  Spring !  it  was  all  we  could  understand, 
Love,  shall  we  tremble  at  Winter's  rime? 

When  your  dear  hands  in  my  own  I  fold, 
Who  shall  persuade  me  that  Youth  is  fled? 
E'en  though  one  rose  from  the  ranks  of  the  dead, 
Dear  as  of  old  is  your  beautiful  head. 


[148] 


JUVENILIA 


"REASON  FROWNING  ASKS 
OF  ME" 

REASON  frowning  asks  of  me, 
Foolish  dreamer  can  there  be 
Pleasure  wherein  profit  lies 
In  the  spell  of  women's  eyes? 
Can  you  ever  hope  to  win 
Her  that  you  delight  so  in, 
Think  you  that  your  love's  returned — 
That  her  soul  for  thine  has  yearned? 
Seek  again  her  lustrous  eyes, 
You  have  learned  so  soon  to  prize. 
In  their  calm,  translucent  sea, 
Mark  you  answering  love  for  thee? 


"YOU  SEEM  TO  ME  LIKE  TERROR- 
STRICKEN  FAUNS" 

You  seem  to  me  like  terror-stricken  fauns 
Snared  in  the  city's  harsh,  unlovely  street. 
Vistas  of  stone  alone  your  glances  greet — 
Vanished  for  aye  the  pure  and  choral  dawns, 
The  morning  censers  swung  on  misty  lawns, 
Music  of  winds  insufferably  sweet. 

[149] 


JUVENILIA 


"SOFTLY  THE  SHATTERED  LANCES 
OF  THE  RAIN" 

SOFTLY  the  shattered  lances  of  the  rain 

In  glistening  shards  fall  whisp'ring  on  the  earth, 

The  woods  stand  awed,  and  gone  the  careless  mirth 

Of  vagrant  winds  whose  melodies  retain 

Hues  of  the  sunny  lands  that  gave  them  birth. 


"O   LOVELY   NIGHT" 

O  LOVELY  Night,  dear  handmaiden  of  God, 
Triumphant  Night,  Thou  wast  ere  Time  began. 
Still  shalt  thou  reign  when  worlds  complete  their 

span, 

When,  spent,  the  sun  reels  from  the  path  he  trod, 
Faints  and  fades  out,  an  unremembered  clod. 
According  to  some  incommunicable  plan, 
Man  fain  would  fathom  and  its  purpose  scan, 
Ere  rings  his  roof  to  the  exultant  sod. 


[150] 


JUVENILIA 


"ANIMA  ANCEPS" 

I  OFTEN  wonder  if  you  know 
How  fast  my  throbbing  pulses  go, 
When  now  and  then,  by  happy  chance, 
Our  eyes  meet  in  a  merry  glance, 
And  when  you  laugh  so  sweet  and  low. 

Ah,  does  your  blood  still  calmly  flow 
When  soft  and  sweet  your  dark  eyes  grow, 
Or  does  it  onward,  faster  dance? — 
I  often  wonder. 

Alas !     Drear  doubt  besets  me  so. 
Suppose  my  heart  should  tell  its  woe: 
Would  you  then  coldly  look  askance, 
Or  with  the  eyes  that  so  entrance 
A  light  on  all  my  darkness  throw? — 
I  often  wonder. 


[151] 


JUVENILIA 


O  BLESSED  SLEEP 

O  BLESSED  sleep  that  vanquishes  mine  eyes 
When  all  the  world  in  lang'rous  revery  lies. 
A  jealous  mistress  thou;  who  would  adore 
Must  love  thee  only,  giving  all  else  o'er, 
Lest  from  afar  thou  wilt  but  tantalize. 

With  thy  cool  touch  what  splendid  visions  rise, 
What  gentle  play  of  unheard  melodies 
Where   noiseless   waves   wash  on  a   phantom 
shore, 

O  blessed  sleep! 

The  heart  no  more  for  empty  nothings  cries; 
Life  is  forgot,  naught  know  we  of  its  sighs. 
Alas,  that  day  should  consciousness  restore, 
That  thou  art  deaf  to  piteous  implore: 
Too  soon  always  thy  weird  witchery  flies, 
O  blessed  sleep! 


[152] 


JUVENILIA 


"IN  THE  FOREST  ALL  IS  SILENT" 

IN  the  forest  all  is  silent 
Save  the  leaves'  uncertain  rustling; 
Gaunt  and  grim  the  gloomy  arches, 
And  the  chill  wind  moaning  through  them 
Drives  the  withered  leaves  before  it, 
Pallid  ghosts  of  a  dead  summer 
Flitting  through  a  ruined  temple; 
And  the  moonbeams  struggle  faintly 
Through  the  clouds  all  gray  and  shapeless, 
On  the  branches  restless  swaying, 
Swaying  impotent  and  helpless, 
Clutching  with  their  knotty  fingers 
At  the  cold  gray  sky  above  them, 
As  an  old  man  worn  and  feeble 
Muttering  low  in  accents  broken 
Wanders  with  his  eyes  uplifted 
Seeking  vainly  some  lost  treasure. 
Darkness — Death — Desolation. 


[153] 


JUVENILIA 


RONDEL 

TAKE  not  thy  lips  away,  O  love  of  mine, 
For  naught  is  there  in  life  one  half  so  sweet 
That  whelms  the  sense  with  rhapsody  divine, 
Mocking  all  speech  when  I  would  fain  repeat 
The  tale  thou  knowest.     Would  my  heart  might 

beat 

Forever  with  thine  own,  my  eyes  meet  thine. 
Take  not  thy  lips  away,  O  love  of  mine. 

Take  not  thy  lips  away,  O  love  of  mine, 
For  naught  is  there  in  life  one  half  so  sweet. 
It  is  the  pearl  dissolved  in  life's  rough  wine 
That  doth  allure  e'en  with  its  mute  entreat, 
And  Time  stays  not  his  ever  flying  feet 
Nor  will  the  sun  for  us  forever  shine, — 
Take  not  thy  lips  away,  O  love  of  mine. 


[154] 


JUVENILIA 


EN  PASSANT 

RONDEL AFTER    DOBSON 

SOFTLY  to-night  is  mem'ry  turning 
The  dim  old  leaves  of  her  book  of  lore, 
And  days  forgotten  rise  up  once  more, 
Old  days   that  were  fraught  with  a  useless 

yearning. 

Again  in  my  heart  I  feel  its  burning, 
The  old  sweet  love  of  the  days  of  yore. 
Softly  to-night  is  mem'ry  turning 
The  dim  old  leaves  of  her  book  of  lore. 

Ah,  well ! — once  more  thy  dust  inurning, 
Again  to  oblivion  I  give  thee  o'er, 
Less  the  foolish  prayers  that  I  said  before: 
Time  gives  to  us  all  a  little  learning. 
Softly  to-night  is  mem'ry  turning. 


[155] 


JUVENILIA 


"O  LOVE,  COME  BACK" 

O  LOVE,  come  back,  I  fain  would  say, 
Though  crabbed  Wisdom  whispers  "Nay, 
Thou  knowest  well  the  sighs  and  pain 
That  shall  be  thine  if  Love  remain. 
Rejoice  that  Love  is  well  away." 

'Tis  true  I  swore  but  yesterday 
That  Love  should  lead  no  more  astray, 
And  yet  my  heart  cries  out  again, 
O  Love,  come  back! 

Leave  me  no  more,  but  with  me  stay, 
Then  all  the  year  shall  be  as  May. 
Live  in  my  heart  and  in  it  reign 
And  lift  me  pleasure's  cup  to  drain; 
Though  life  should  only  be  a  day, 
O  Love,  come  back! 


[156] 


NOTES 


NOTES 

STEPHEN   PHILLIPS,  BANKRUPT. 

Suggested  by  a  notice  in  a  London  paper 
that  Stephen  Phillips,  the  English  poet,  had 
been  declared  a  bankrupt. 
THE  DUKE  OF  GANDIA. 

The  Duke  of  Gandia  is   one  of  the  later 
dramatic   poems   of   Charles  Algernon  Swin- 
burne. 
DEATH  OF  ASE  (PEER  GYNT  SUITE). 

Ibsen's   poetic   drama,  Peer   Gynt,  Act  3, 
Sc.  4. 
By  THE  SEA:  A  MEMORY. 

Written    for    Mrs.    David    Van    Alstyne's 
bungalow  at  Leonardo,  New  Jersey. 
"SLAVE"  OF  MICHELANGELO. 

The     famous     piece    of     sculpture,     "The 
Slave,"  in  the  Louvre  at  Paris. 
"VICTORY"  OF  SAMOTHRACE. 

The  statue  in  the  Louvre,  discovered  in 
1863  during  excavations  on  the  Island  of 
Samothrace,  JEgean  Sea.  The  quotation  in 
the  first  line  is  from  Stephen  Crane,  the 
American  novelist. 

[159] 


NOTES 

IN  MEMORIAM:  To  GREATER  CLOVER. 

In   memory   of   Greayer    Clover,   a   young 
aviator  who  fell  to  his  death,  August  30,  1Q18. 
THE  BELOVED  VAGABOND. 

Addressed  to  an  old  friend,  Young  Ewing 
Allison,  of  Louisville,  Ky. 
COUSIN  JANE. 

Addressed    to    Miss    Jane    Rutherfoord,   of 
Richmond,  Va. 
MONTVILLE. 

The  deserted  home  of  the  Ayletts.     Philip 
Aylett,  who  was  the  great  grandfather  of  the 
poet,  married  the  daughter  of  Patrick  Henry. 
FRIENDSHIP'S  OFFERING. 

To  Ruth  Sharpe  Metcalf. 
To  A  POLYPHONIC  POET. 

After    reading    Can    Grande's    Casile,    by 
Miss  Amy  Lowell. 
COVERLY. 

The  country  home  of  Mrs.  Archer  Jones,  in 
Amelia  County,  Virginia. 
THALASSA  !  THALASSA  ! 

The  title  of  this  poem  may  have  been  sug- 
gested by  the  exclamation  of  the  Greek  army, 
as  recorded  in  Xenophon's  Anabasis,  when, 
after  a  perilous  march,  they  caught  sight  of 
the  sea. 


[160] 


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